A New Day, A New Life
by ajayd
Summary: A timealtering potion gone wrong unfixes time, sending HP and DM through progessively more altered realities. Their return home drops them amidst burgeoning war. Hogwarts has closed, and their feelings for each other are not the only things changing.
1. You Set 'Em Up, I Knock 'Em Down

Disclaimer: Harry Potter & Co. are the property of JK Rowling Filthy Rich Enterprises.

Author's Note: I am very bad. I have abandoned my last story due to irreconcilable plot issues. However, I have learned a valuable lesson (as I have with every piece I have attempted), and so have developed a detailed predetermined plot for this particular masterpiece. So, please forgive me for leaving my old story and beginning a new one. Enjoy.

Warnings: various forms of abuse; slash; outlandish storyline (bear with me).

TITLE: A NEW DAY, A NEW LIFE

Ch.1: You Set 'Em Up, I Knock 'Em Down

"I still wish Remus had taught _me_ to apparate," Ron grumbled for about the millionth time as the he, Hermione, and Harry stood up. Hermione ignored the redhead while Harry had to bite back a sigh if frustration – both of them were sick of hearing it. Given the everyday peril to Harry's life, it made every sense in the world that he had received some extra training during his two week stay at Grimmauld Place at the end of the summer.

McGonagall approached the trio as they made to leave the Great Hall. Dinner was pretty much over, and there were only a dozen or so students and professors still enjoying the cuisine and conversation. It was only the first day of classes and the fact that there was still much catching up to do was the only reason dinner had lasted as long as it had.

"Mr. Potter."

The trio turned, Harry impassive, and the other two with looks of nervous expectation. Unsolicited contact with teachers, however common since taking up residency in the august company of the Boy-Who-Lived, was rarely a result of some positive turn in events.

"Yes, ma'am," Harry asked blankly. Merlin, please don't let this be about Sirius. The last thing he needed was someone else wanting to offer an ear to unload on.

McGonagall spared two polite glances for the other Gryffindors before focusing on Harry Potter. "Mr. Potter, the Headmaster would like to speak with you regarding a matter of some urgency."

Harry's brow frowned, but it was more of a reflexive move than one truly inspired by any true confusion. Expect the unexpected, that was his motto. "Right now?"

"Yes. I will accompany you." The aged matriarch nodded briskly to Hermione and Ron, then promptly turned to leave.

Without a glance at his friends, Harry followed. "Later guys."

During the march to Dumbledore's office, McGonagall engaged in a prolonged and ill-fated attempt to ask Harry about his summer, his OWLS, and his future aspirations to be an Auror. Of course, she already knew all about these topics, but what she couldn't have been aware of was the current manifestation of Harry's evolving demeanor, which had her questions running off him like water off a duck's back.

The previous five years had shown that naivety, friendliness, impulsiveness, and anger were not enough to successfully navigate an increasingly hostile magical environment. As summer of profound and determined reflection had led his to the conclusion that, if he intended to survive (which he did, if only to enact revenge upon Voldemort's pulverized carcass), he would have to have all his wits about him. And if that meant embracing his more Slytherin qualities, then so be it.

It was surprisingly easy – though, in retrospect, it was pretty obvious that his decade with the Dursleys had allowed him to masterfully hone these qualities. And though he had once hoped to leave them behind, returning to them was as easy as returning to a second skin. Except that it wasn't a second skin, it was his second self, a self that he had abandoned on some metaphorical shelf only to be retrieved when his more expressive, more active, and his downright preferable self could no longer hack it in the world of the cutthroat and psychotic.

"Reeses Peanut Butter Puffs."

The gargoyle moved aside to reveal a spiraling staircase.

"Here is where I leave you, Mr. Potter." McGonagall seemed a little displeased with the poor quality of her social interaction with Harry, but the latter couldn't have cared less and immediately headed up the stairs with a simple, "Thank you, Professor."

The Headmaster's door swung open before he even had a chance to knock, and Harry had to repress a genuine urge to groan when he saw just who was in the office with Dumbledore – none other than the perpetually greaseball himself, Snape, apparently pacing the length of the eastern wall.

"Harry! Do come in and sit down," Dumbledore exclaimed companionably and Harry had to further repress an urge to throttle the infuriating old man. By staying calm, Harry was going to make sure HE was the one in control of what was surely to be a doomed interaction.

Snape stopped his pacing to give Harry his best death-glare as Harry came forward and took a seat. "Headmaster, Professor. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Don't be smart, Potter," Snape snapped. "You know exactly what this is about."

Harry turned to look calculatingly at the slimy potions master and cocked an eyebrow. "Really. Care to enlighten me?"

Snape looked like he was going to explode, his pallid skin actually purpling and every muscle trembling with tension, but Dumbledore defused the situation before it escalated with a simple, "Please, Severus, let me deal with this."

Harry smirked inwardly as he turned his attention back to the Headmaster.

"Harry, a lemon drop?"

Okay, so now I'm back to wanting to slap this ancient asshole. Just don't let it show. "No, thank you."

"Very well. As I can tell that you are anxious to know why you have been called to my office, let me get straight to the point. Professor Snape suspects that you have found a way to break into one of his potion cabinets to steal a particularly rare and expensive substance. What do you have to say to these allegations?"

Harry couldn't help it, his mouth fell open just a little bit, and his eyes narrowed a little as he glanced over at the Greasy Git. What in Merlin's name was he up to now? Fuck, it was going to be hard to keep his anger in check. "Yes, I have something to say! This is ridiculous. I've only been at Hogwarts for one day, and I've only been in that room once – DURING POTIONS! Ron and Hermione can vouch for where I've been for the last twenty-four hours, I was with them almost the entire time. I didn't go anywhere near the dungeons."

Snape appeared to be scrutinizing him, and Harry felt distinctly uncomfortable under his glower. "Weasley and Granger are not acceptable alibis, Potter. While in all the school only you would have the audacity to do something like this, only Ms. Granger has the skill to complete any potion involving Ent Tree blood."

"Not acceptable alibis! Well, Seamus, Dean, Neville, and Ginny were with me at various of the time too. Or is all of Gryffindor in on this conspiracy?" Agh, sarcasm ran amok! Goddamn it, Harry, keep your fucking yap shut!

Dumbledore once again saved the day from Snape's imminent violent implosion. "I believe you, Harry. There was just some concern that you might try to use the ingredient to bring back Sirius Black, but I know you wouldn't do something as drastic as that."

Harry's jead snapped up to glare at the Headmaster. What did he mean by that? He was about to ask, but Snape spoke first. "Headmaster! Letting Potter off the hook so easily is foolhardy and irresponsible! He is just going to go make the potion anyway!"

Bloodly Hell, whatever potion this is must be quite dangerous to make Snape fly into a rage three times in as many minutes. However, luckily for Harry, Dumbledore also appeared to be losing his patience. His voice was unruffled, and his expression soothing, but irritation was still apparent. "Severus, calm yourself. You have no evidence, and Harry is not in the habit of lying, so maybe you should set your phenomenal mental faculties on finding the real culprit instead of wasting time trying to incriminate him."

Snape looked for a moment that he would challenge Dumbledore's decision, but in the end he just settled for gritting his teeth and storming out of the office with a surprisingly successful slam of the heavy, hardwood door. Harry turned back to look at the Headmaster – he was pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, and signs of stress were apparent on his brow and around his mouth. Harry almost felt sorry for the old man who bore the weight of the world even more so than he did. . . almost. The old man was also a manipulative, condescending asshole.

Harry stood and Dumbledore readjusted his glasses to take it the growing boy before him. "Is that all, sir?"

"Yes, Harry, I'm sorry about this. We'll have to talk later about starting up your Occlumency again."

No fucking way. "Yes, sir. Goodnight."

And with those words, Harry headed out, pausing only momentarily to give Fawkes a quick pat on the head.

Back in the common room Harry plopped down with a sigh on the couch between Hermione (who was, get this, _reading_) and Ron (who was playing wizard's chess with a pensive Ginny). Various other Gryffindors were milling about, talking and laughing and playing games; a few were getting an early start on homework Ron spared Harry a glance and a 'Hi' before returning his attention to the game.

Without looking up from her book, Hermione asked, "What did the Headmaster want?"

Harry did a double take when he eyeballed the title of the book she was reading, 'Masochism and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder: A Psychoanalysis of the typical House Elves'. "Uh… somebody knicked an ingredient out of a potion's cupboard and Snape tried to pin it on yours truly, but it obviously wasn't me and Dumbledore knew it. But Snape through a right fit about the whole thing."

Ron scowled without even looking up. "That smarmy ass," he muttered.

Hermione's eyes were still rooted to the page held in front of her. "What ingredient," she asked disinterestedly.

Harry took an irritable moment to remember. "Entry blood, or some such hogwash that no one with a life worth living has ever heard of."

Finally, Hermione lowered her book, both eyebrows raised high on her forehead "Entry blood? . . . Do you mean Ent Tree's blood? As in the blood of a kind of tree called an Ent?"

Hermoine's expression worried Harry, something bad was coming, he could just tell. Even Ron could tell from the tone of her voice, as he turned to look at the resident brainiac. Of course, it was inevitable that the shit storm would start as soon as he was back at Hogwarts. He actually caught himself wishing he was back at the Dursleys'.

"Um, I guess," Harry conceded warily. Okay, lay it on us, what is this year's ridiculously dangerous and ill-fated challenge?

Hermione closed her book – not a good sign – and leaned closer to her best friends; Ginny and Ron responded by leaning closer too.

"Guys. . . There is only one genre of potion that require Ent's blood, and that kind of potion is highly illegal. I'm shocked that even Snape would have such a substance." Hermione looked meaningfully at the three boys, and Harry tried to rack his brain for some memory of something called an Ent, but all that came was a vague Lord of the Rings reference.

Ron quickly got impatient. "Well?"

A brief expression of annoyance flashed across Hermione's face at their ignorance. Being the only brain in a room full of ignoramuses was almost as bad as being the old sober person in a room full of drunks. "Time altering potions, Ronald. Geez, what would you guys do without me, live in the Dark Ages?"

Ron had some not-so-witty comeback, but Harry was too busy thinking. Who would want to alter time? And there was something else about the whole situation that was nagging at the back of his mind…

"Wait, wait, Hermione, listen," Harry interrupted their bickering. "Snape said something about me being the only one with the audacity to use the potion, but that you were the only one with the ability to make it."

Hermione caught on immediately. "Of course, all time altering potions are notoriously hard to brew. Which begs the question, who else at Hogwarts would be able to concoct such a potion?"

The trio, plus the littlest Weasley, thought about that question for a moment. Finally, Ginny ventured a guess, "Well, aren't those two Ravenclaws at the top of the seventh year class?"

Ron grimaced. "Yeah, I remember, they were rewarded a whole bunch of house points for participating in some interschool potions competition last year."

Hermione looked astonished. "Wow. I didn't think you were even aware of that competition last year."

Ron rolled his eyes and said, sounding a little offended, "Oh, come on, I'm not completely unaware of the world around me."

Harry interrupted them before their bickering could escalate, "I bet Mme Pomfrey could whip up a wicked potion if necessary."

The other three looked at him, a little flabbergasted that he would even suggest the kindly mediwitch. Okay, so maybe he was taking this whole 'trust no one' thing a little too seriously. Finally Ginny managed to say, "Well, if we're going to suspect teachers, we might as well add the new DADA professor."

Harry was all too aware of the position's close association with ambiguous and untrustworthy characters. This year, however, after a long recovery from his earlier ordeal at Hogwarts, the real Mad-Eye Moody was returning to try his hand at the position a second time. Harry was pretty certain that Moody was as likely to be innocent as any of the other professors, but prudence still dictated that he deserved close observance. Then again, no one who had had to live though Quirrell, Lockhart, Lupin, Crouch, _and_ Umbridge would ever be able to look on the DADA position with anything but the up most suspicion. There had even been some talk – amongst the Gryffindors too! – that Snape would be a preferable alternative to whatever other random psycho could be found to fill the job. At least Snape hadn't actively tried to harm any students, which is more than could be said for the line of DADA professors. Even Remus had almost killed them.

"Okay," Harry conceded. "Moody is a definite possibility, simply by virtue of his position. I'm a little skeptical of the two Ravenclaws, but it's still feasible, especially if Voldemort targeted someone they knew." The summer had been littered with gruesome and apparently random Death Eater attacks. "Is there anyone else we can think of?"

There was a pregnant pause, before Hermione hesitantly voiced another possibility. "Uh, well, there is someone in our year that, uh, bettrdenmehatpotions."

Harry and Ginny looked at her owlishly, and Ron just blinked. "What," he asked blankly.

Now Hermione looked downright embarrassed, and she cleared her throat nervously. "There is someone in our year that's better than me at potions, definitely better than the two Ravenclaws," she annunciated quietly but clearly. "And who would have an obvious motive."

"Who," Ron asked dumbly.

Just then, the answer clicked for Harry and he suddenly had a very good idea who had stolen Snape's Ent Tree blood. "Of course," he hissed, eyes narrowing as he filled with rage. "Malfoy. That redundant egotistical monstrosity is going to try to prevent daddy Death Eater dearest from being incarcerated in Azkaban!"

Ron and the two girls looked at Harry in surprise. He frowned at their reactions. "What?"

Hermione was a little miffed. "I guess years of sparring with Malfoy has done more for your oratory skills than being friends with me."

Ron and Ginny cracked grins, while Harry just rolled his eyes before launching back into the subject at hand. "It's the ferret, I know it is. We must go tell Dumbledore!"

"Wait a second," Hermione interrupted, suddenly serious. "It hardly takes an Einstein to know which students are capable of using Ent Tree blood to make a time altering potion. I'll bet Dumbledore already knows. Maybe there's no evidence on Malfoy either."

"What's an Einstein," Ron asked.

Harry ignored Ron and forced himself to breathe and remain calm, which wasn't too hard despite the intense desire to maim and murder that always came over him when he found his life being interfered with by Hogwart's worst excuse for a human being. Argh! He should've known something was up with Malfoy after he failed to show for his annual Hogwarts Express harassment.

Okay, so Dumbledore couldn't move against Malfoy because of a lack of evidence, but that didn't mean that some sort of non-official investigation couldn't take place. . . in fact, Harry wouldn't put it below Dumbledore to have set up the whole meeting with Snape just to get him on the right track.

"I just had a thought, mates. You should've been at the meeting with Snape and Dumbledore, it was the most contrived thing ever. Dumbledore would never have let Snape's paranoid delusions get so out of hand unless he had some purpose to."

Harry paused just long enough to take a breath, but it was plenty long enough for Hermione to pick up where he left off. "He set us up," she said excitedly. "He wants us to go after Malfoy!"

Harry nodded in agreement, while Ron looked amazed by their impressive display of deductive reasoning. Ginny, on the other hand, was noticeably displeased with their hypothesis. "I don't know. Are you sure you aren't just reading what you want into this?"

Hermione considered her objection, not entirely sure that they hadn't jumped to conclusions, but Ron and Harry just looked at her like she was an alien – which she sort of was; she was certainly the alien in their little group of three.

Ginny frowned and huffed in frustration. "Fine, get in trouble if you want. It's late and I'm going to bed. . . And Ron, mum's going to skin you alive if you land yourself St. Mungo's again." And with that, she stood and hurried up the stairs towards the girls' dormitory. The trio exchanged a communicative look before Harry jumped to his feet.

"Come on, lets go look at the map."

Ron and Hermione joined him in running up the stairs. It was only 9:40 and the dorm room was empty except for Neville, who was digging through his trunk for something (Trevor?). He looked up briefly to say 'Hi' before returning to his desperate rummaging.

Harry retrieved the Marauders Map from his own trunk before joining Ron and Hermione on his bed and closing the curtains.

"Lumos." Hermione's wand began emitting a comforting light as Harry eagerly unrolled the parchment.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

The three leaned together to watch the map come to life before their eyes. There were around two hundred and fifty students and teachers in Hogwarts, so it took some time eyeballing each label, but D. Malfoy was eventually located – and not in the Slytherin dorms either. He appeared to be in a room in the abandoned section of the dungeons, and Harry had a sickening feeling that they may already be to late.

And if there was one thing Harry was good at, it was acting with a sense of urgency.

"FUCK!"

Harry was on his feet and out the door before Ron or Hermione even had the time to react. By the time they were running down the stairs after them, he had already dashed out of the common room, leaving a wake of alarmed and wide-eyed Gryffindors.

But, _damn_, that boy could run. Down multiple staircases and though several hallways, Hermione fell hopelessly behind; then, after a rather clumsy and painful stumble down half a flight of stairs, so did Ron. When a sweaty and crazed-looking Boy-Who-Lived threw open the door to the dungeon room, his friends were at least a full thirty seconds behind him. But Harry was hardly thinking them.

Before him stood Draco Malfoy, about a half meter away from a bubbling cauldron. In one hand he held a vial and in his other hand his wand, and his mouth was open as if caught right in the middle of an incantation. The Slytherin's blue eyes went wide in shock and fear, then suddenly the wand was being pointed at Harry.

His own wand lay abandoned in the Gryffindor tower, but Harry's mind didn't even consider this fact while reacting. He wasn't actually thinking, he was action incarnate, he had no choice, his body had a will of its own: two lightening-fast steps and then with an incoherent howl he had launched himself at the pale boy.

Malfoy buckled under Harry's weight and he stumbled and fell backwards. The back of his skull violently struck wrought iron and he lost consciousness before the dark boiling liquid came flooding out of its upturned cauldron. Harry, however, had plenty of time to cry out in agony before his vision blurred. . . and then there was nothing.

END OF CHAPTER

Please Review. The next chappy will be up in a few days, maybe earlier if I am pleased with your offerings.


	2. Day One, Part One: A Doppelganger World

Disclaimer: Not mine.

MAGGIE (and others who hate me because of my last story) – As I said before, 'The Empty Vessel' had irreconcilable plot difficulties. Yes, this is my fault, but what did you want me to do? Write some crap in order to abruptly and unsatisfyingly finish the story? I do sincerely apologize, but I also refuse to invest a lot of energy to prolong the death of a seriously flawed beginning. Especially if you're not going to pay me. I only write for fun and I only whore myself for money. If you liked the story so much, you have my permission to finish it and post it wherever. I am sorry that I am only an amateur writer.

Now that I'm finished with that, on with the show. . .

Ch. 2: Day One, Part One: A Doppelganger World

_Beepbeep. Beepbeep. Beepbeep. BEEEP!_

"YAAAWAAAGHHH!"

"Mmph," Harry moaned as he turned over. Seamus' rooster yawn every morning was almost as reliable as the alarm spell he set for a full fifteen minutes before they truly had to be up in order to make breakfast. As, unfortunately, was Ron's reaction.

"Finnegan! I'm going to curse you into oblivion!"

"Ha! But yuh'll have tae get up first!"

Harry heard scurrying that could only be Seamus dashing to the showers. Other, much more languid sounds of life began to manifest too as his other roommates struggled awake. Normally, he'd try to get up too, but this morning he felt dreadfully groggy, as though hung over. And there was something else too, something lurking in the back of his mind. Maybe one of his mates had jinxed him in his sleep. It certainly wouldn't have been the first time that one of them would be guilty of such a low practical joke.

After several more moments, Harry felt a hand shaking him and heard Ron's voice calling his name. He managed to roll out of bed, stumble to the bathrooms, not fall asleep during his shower, then accomplish the rest of his morning activities with zombie-like resolve. He didn't even notice the various greetings he received.

Things improved with breakfast. The atmosphere and food cleared his mind, though it only made him more attentive of a certain uneasiness that itched and tickled at his nerves. He dimly became aware of the fact that Neville had been talking almost nonstop since they had left the common room. Next to Harry, Hermoine was looking mildly annoyed, and across from her Ron was watching her sappily, no doubt finding her annoyance cute.

"Ewww, that is so gross," Lavender squealed. Harry tuned into the conversation long enough to realize that Neville was detailing some dream he had the previous night where he had apparently been a giant amoeba, mated to the giant squid, and the proud father of a giant toad named Trevor. Though he'd never say anything, Harry vaguely agreed with Lavender and shot Hermione a sympathetic look. On the other hand, Hermione was usually the one going on and on.

As the first class of the day approached, Harry turned his attention from his polished plate (a diehard habit acquired at the Dursleys) and let it wander over the throngs of students in the Great Hall. It was strangely comforting to see all as it usually was, Ravenclaws studying and talking seriously, Hufflepuffs chatting energetically, Slytherins being their usual slimy plotting selves –

Harry's eyes narrowed. The Slytherin table looked. . . sparse. A quick inventory exposed an obvious pattern in the absenteeism: almost every seventh year was missing. A further few seconds of surveillance also revealed another observation: Malfoy's court was looking less pleased with themselves than usual. Indeed, they were occasionally shooting their prince inconspicuous but wary glances; not to mention that Malfoy looked to be in a particularly foul mood. He didn't usually sport that dementedly hateful and enraged expression until _after_ an encounter with the Gryffindor trio.

Harry frowned, getting the distinct impression that he was missing something, and that Draco Malfoy had everything to do with it. He absently reached out to tug on Hermione's sleeve. Hermione turned away from whatever she was saying to Ginny. "Yeah?"

Harry asked his question without ever taking his eyes off the Slytherin table. "Look at the snakes today."

Hermione took a moment to look, and Ron even turned around to follow the direction of their staring.

"Notice anything," Harry asked, finally turning his head to face the local genius.

Hermione frowned slightly before meeting Harry's gaze. "No. Looks like it does everyday, as far as I can tell. Why? What's going on?"

Harry couldn't believe that Hermione hadn't picked up on the absence of the seventh years. It was, well, awfully obvious to be something she would miss.

"Where are all the seventh years," he asked as if she was dumb, the way she always asked obvious questions. By this point Ron was frowning too.

"With Voldemort," Hermione replied easily, trying to see what her friend was getting at.

"No, they're – what," Harry stuttered, reeling suddenly with confusion. "With – how do you know? Since yesterday?"

Now Hermione and Ron were both looking at him with definite concern. "They weren't here yesterday or the day before, mate," Ron said gently, almost as he feared that he was talking to an invalid.

An expression of mild fear had taken up residence on Hermione's face. "Harry, we've talked about this at the Welcoming Feast, don't you remember?"

Harry's confusion bled into ferocious vertigo, and he began to feel nauseous. He shut his eyes tightly in an attempt to stop the room from spinning, and clamped a hand over his mouth. Don't puke, don't puke, don't. . . The mantra blurred as his mind came completely hazed over, before abruptly shifting back into focus. Harry's head jerked slightly with the violence of sudden recollection, and his eyes snapped open, immediately glaring furiously at the loathsome blond. That bloody ferret wanker had actually succeeded in fucking up time!

"What about Lucius Malfoy," Harry ground out between clenched teeth, trying to keep his voice low despite his wrath. "Is he in jail?"

"Yes," Hermione instantly answered worriedly, though both she and Ron had seemed to have caught on to the fact that whatever was wrong with Harry had something to do with the younger Malfoy. To Hermione, it was actually a bit of a relief considered the even graver nature of the other possibilities. A slight memory charm couldn't be too bad, right? Ron, on the other hand, was definitely flushing with his own rage.

"What has that monster done now, Harry," the gangly teen hissed in an almost unrecognizable fashion. Where was the rage? Instead, Ron's expression was one of disgust and moderate horror, with a dash of fear.

Harry was about to respond, but was interrupted by the fact that Malfoy had gotten up from the table and was stalking out of the Great Hall as various Slytherins tried to scurry after him. In fact, the other tables were quickly emptying too.

"I'll explain after class," Harry replied tersely as he stood up.

. . . break . .

For Hermione and Harry, Tuesday meant double Advanced Potions, and it was definitely worse than Harry remembered, and not just since fifth year, but since the day before. The Slytherins did not openly tease anyone or sabotage anyone's potion, but Harry found their altered demeanor even more unnerving – he would have preferred insults and sabotage than whatever was festering behind looks of vindictive loathing and maliciousness that were no way near as trivial as they should have been. These were people – children – that would slit your throat in your sleep, then murder and rape your children just because they hated you _that_ much. . . But Hermione was noticeably more concerned with his behavior than that of the Slytherins, so he could only assume that this was the way snakes usually conducted themselves in this altered timeline.

Snape too seemed slightly changed, though it was difficult to determine what was actually different and what was merely a new manifestation of the slimeball's odious personality. However, one variance with expected behavior was obvious to anyone watching, which Harry most certainly was – Snape was avoiding Malfoy, to the point that he neither said a word to the blond menace, nor did he at any time inspect his potion. In fact, Malfoy was the only unpartnered student in the class, and Harry wouldn't have been surprised if he was actually concocting a different potion altogether.

By the end of double potions, Harry wasn't any calmer about the whole situation. Indeed, an hour and a half of glaring silently at one's nemesis was plenty of time to work up all the flawed reason and indignation necessary to do something truly imprudent. So when class ended Harry packed up quickly, determined to confront Malfoy before Advanced CoMC.

Luckily, Hermione knew him well enough to know when something ill-advised was about to happen.

"Harry, wait," she called out before he had even managed to escape the classroom. Harry paused for only a moment, but it was enough for Hermione to catch up with him. "What are you doing? Please tell me before you do anything stupid."

Harry might have been insulted if Hermione hadn't sounded so whiny. And then, there it was, that elusive voice of reason: _Harry, mate, think this through. Do you really know what is going on? No. Even if Malfoy has successfully fucked around with time, that doesn't mean that he remembers it. What is a scene in the hallways really going to accomplish?_

"Okay, okay," he replied irritably. "I won't do anything stupid. But I _really_ need to talk to you about something."

Hermione was sufficiently placated, and even gave him a weak smile. "That's fine, we'll sit in the back at CoMC. Hagrid will never notice."

Harry surprisingly relieved by this. He knew that Hermione hated not paying attention in class, and he was grateful that he wouldn't have to spend another lesson obsessing passively over something that, at the moment, he could do nothing about.

. . . break . . .

Ron was thrilled to see his two best friends sitting as far away from Hagrid and whatever those tiny, vicious-looking creatures were. His grin faded to solemnity upon seeing them deep in conversation.

"What's going on," he asked nervously, sitting next to Harry. They both looked at him, Hermione distinctly pale and Harry noticeably upset. They hadn't been talking long, but it was enough for Harry to convey the main points; which he promptly repeated for his other friend.

"Look like you're paying attention," Harry instructed, as Hagrid started talking at the front of the class. Ron faced forward and Harry continued. "I think Malfoy's changed time. Last night I got this warning from Dumbledore, saying that someone had stolen Ent Tree's blood, which the, uh…"

"Primary component," Hermione inserted.

"Yes. That. Of, uh, all time-altering potions," Harry whispered on. "So we all ran down to the dungeons to find Malfoy. I got there first, but he was obviously already halfway through or something, and I knocked the potion out of his hand, but we, uh, kinda ended up knocking the cauldron over too, and the potion got all over us. Then that's all I can remember about last night. But then I wake up this morning like nothing's happened. It wasn't until I noticed that all the seventh year Slytherins are missing, then you guys said they never showed up this year. But they did, I remember they did. . . and I really don't think that I'm crazy or imagining any of this."

Hermione was rubbing her temples, eyes closed, while Ron stared at him, mouth slightly open and expression oscillating between horror and disbelief. He opened and shut his mouth several times, looking really stupid, before finally managing to vocalize something. "But why would Malfoy go through all that trouble just so that a few student would join V-V-Vol. . . You-Know-Who? I mean, everybody knows that time potions are, like, ridiculously hard to make."

Hermione nodded. "They take months of preparation, even in the cases when the ingredients aren't mixed until right before. Plus, you usually have to add several liters of your own blood. Harry, I don't know about this. . ."

Harry knew that he probably shouldn't have been surprised, but their disbelief hurt; it also stoked the fire of panic of that was burning acidicly in his stomach. Stay calm, stay calm, they'll come around. . .

"It's more than just the Slytherin seventh years. Malfoy's acting weird too. 'Mion – did you see in potions? He, like, wasn't even making the same potion as us! And, Snape completely forgot to kiss his arse like he usually does. _And_, Malfoy didn't make any nasty comments, or try to sabotage anyone's potions." Harry looked at his friends stubbornly and arrogantly, as if challenging them to deny this further evidence.

Which, of course, they did. Ron responded with an expression of pure skepticism; Hermione lifted her head and tried a more reasonable. "Uh, Harry, if Malfoy actually managed to change time, then it is perfectly possible that he himself wouldn't remember it. Which brings up the crucial question – why do you remember the other past if, in fact, that past has been altered?"

Throughout her speech Harry felt the encroachment of an icy wave of despair: his friends didn't believe him. Alas, to further underscore this point, Ron decided it was his turn to speak next. "Besides, Harry, I hate to break it to you, but that's the way Malfoy usually is. Nobody messes with him, or even talks to him. Who would want to? He's one hell of a scary creep. The Slytherins are afraid of him, and so is Snape, even though the git would never admit it. He's gonna become V-uh! He's gonna become You-Know-Who's left hand man, and only that because his father already has the right hand. We leave him alone, and he leaves us alone; it's like a truce until the actual war. . . Harry? Don't cry."

Though his face was buried in his hands, Harry wasn't crying, but by the time Ron was finished, he wasn't too far from it. Fuck! Could shit get any worse? Of course, only Malfoy would alter time to make himself a bigger fucking arsehole, even more dead set on and capable of screwing over the entire world.

Hermione inspected his despondent form for a moment before reluctantly speaking. "Harry. . . Do you, uh, remember third year? You picked a fight with Malfoy over Buckbeak, and he, well, he almost killed you. . ."

Now it was Harry's turn to gape open-mouth like a fool, and to flush with anger. Luckily, Ron had the foresight to clamp his hand over Harry's mouth before he exploded. For a beat it just seemed to enrage Harry more, but that beat was all it took for him to force his anger under control.

"I can see that this is news to you," Ron said, though his words conflicted violently with the obvious disbelief in on his face.

Harry shot his friend a nasty look before grounding out, "Okay, hit me. What happened third year, and why wasn't Malfoy expelled if he actually tried to kill me?"

Ron and Hermione exchange a significant look that Harry pretended not to notice.

"Well, it _was_ kinda your fault," Hermione started, though she was interrupted by Ron's fake cough, "Deserved it!"

"Ahr yuh okay?" Hagrid called out worriedly from the front of the class, and all three of them went flushed as the class' attention temporarily turned to them.

"Yessir, it was nothing," Ron replied, then Hagrid thankfully returned to his frightfully boring and inane lecture, in which he pointed to the little things in the cage every once in a while.

The trio shared a look of oh-merlin-that-was-close (with particular direction at Ron), before Hermione launched into a whispered answer to Harry's question. "Okay, Harry, but you _must_ not get mad." She waited a second for him to nod before continuing, "Buckbeak attacked him, and he and his father were suing to have Buckbeak put to death. Then, I remember, it was right after the last class of the day, DADA, and you confronted Malfoy and then both of you were yelling. Then you punched him. Then, uh. . . "

Hermione was looking visibly upset, swallowing and hesitating, so Ron took over with a look of sympathy to 'Mion. "Malfoy went ballistic. He was kicking and hitting and head-butting and _biting_. You fought back, of course, and me and a bunch of students tried to separate you, but he was strangling you with this monster grip and you were unconscious before we pried him off you.. . ."

By this time Ron had both colored in anger and paled in distress (it was a bizarre mix). Hermione looked almost as bad, but she quietly cleared her throat to continue the tale anyway. "Professor McGonagall tried to get him expelled, and Dumbledore actually agreed, even though Malfoy has always been his twisted pet project. But then the legal battle got really out of control, what with Buckbeak and everything, and there was a pretty good case that it was self-defense, so the Ministry sided with the Malfoys. . . Some time after that Malfoy approached us and made the deal."

For the second time that day, Harry feared that he would upchuck the contents of his stomach. Malfoy had tried to _kill_ him, and that fact frightened him. The Malfoy from his timeline had never done anything that extreme. There had been a couple physical fights, but they had been comparatively tame – there certainly hadn't been biting, let alone strangling the other into unconsciousness.

Harry rubbed his eyes tiredly. "What deal?"

"_Harry_," Hermione whined. "The deal. Surely the same deal was made in the other timeline, or whatever. You must remember, it's only the code of conduct that has kept this school in one piece."

Hermione looked pleadingly at Harry, but the latter just shook his head, with a lost expression on his face. Hermione sighed before continuing. "Malfoy, his usual posse, and several of the older Slytherins came to the Tower. Malfoy offered a temporary armistace for the duration of everyone's time at Hogwarts. Of course, we didn't trust him. Whatever his reasons to enforce civility, I'm sure it serves some nefarious purpose. But Malfoy has never targeted anyone, and it's not because he doesn't want to. He has a bigger plan than just making our lives difficult."

Harry looked at the grave faces of his friend and sighed. It was too much information to digest at once, and he has a strong suspicion that it would only be getting worse in the future. He needed to think.

. . . break . . .

By lunch Harry had clammed up – his friends' skepticism and adherence to this abomination of a deal was enough to convince him that he should approach Malfoy by himself.

Yes, he still thought that a. . . _conversation _(it was a pretty appalling notion) with Malfoy was the best option available to him. It was, of course, perfectly possible that Malfoy didn't remember anything; but then again, if Harry remembered what had happened Malfoy might too. After all, Malfoy had been the one to concoct the potion; plus, Malfoy had been drenched in that very potion, just as Harry had, and Harry suspected that the drenching was responsible for his own lack of amnesia.

. . . end . . .

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	3. Day One, Part Two: Malfoy's Evil Twin

Disclaimer: I make 10,000 a year. That is less than the lawyer fees required to sue me.

Warnings: abuse, slash, plot-justified AU

To my reviewers: Thank you for the love.

Ch. 3: Day One, Part Two: Malfoy's Evil Twin

Harry continued to notice slight abnormalities for the rest of the afternoon. While discussing quidditch with Ron between classes, he learned that he was not actually the youngest seeker in decades – in this timeline, Malfoy had never taken Neville's remembrall, and so Harry's seeker skills had not been recognized until second year.

After lunch, Harry had Charms and double Advanced Transfiguration, both classes which provided him with ample opportunity to watch Malfoy. And the more he watched, the less convinced he was that this was the same Malfoy from his timeline – but he still needed to talk to Malfoy, if only because someone so intimately connected to the problem must surely be part of the solution.

Superficially Malfoy's evil twin appeared more unpleasant than his counter – he never smiled or joked around with his housemates; and while this meant that he didn't torment any of his classmates, the resulting Malfoy seemed to be more likely to maim someone that insult them. His sneers weren't expressions of condescension flashed for the sake of the audience, they were grimaces of hate and disgust, revealing a true inner maliciousness. If the old Malfoy's looks could belittle and humiliate, the new Malfoy's looks foretold an immanent killing. Not that he looked much at anyone; he ignored everyone and only glared at those who dared (accidentally or otherwise) break through his purposeful buffer.

By the time the end of Ad Trans rolled around, Harry was positively itching to have an encounter with Malfoy. He didn't think he had _ever_ had to sit through so many classes with the ferret without even a provocative glance. If this Malfoy hadn't the time nor inclination to torment him, then to where in Merlin's name were his destructive talents being channeled?

Ditching Ron and Hermione proved difficult. Both were quite aware of the fact that something was up with their famous friend, and that their famous friend was likely to be up to something, so they stuck to him like glue. He tried and failed to lose them in the crowded common room, and in the Gryffindor mass that made its way back from dinner. Finally, Hermione badgered Harry and Ron until they all ended up in a nearly empty library (it was, after all, only the second day of classes), by which time Harry had pretty much given up hope for the day – even if he did manage to escape his friends, Malfoy was likely to by in the Slytherin commons, and thereby virtually inaccessible

Alas, Fortune was feeling a little guilty about her last bitch-slap, and she took responsibility for presenting Harry with his opportunity: Malfoy walked into the library, quickly deposited two tomes, then headed back out again. The slender boy's entrance and exit were relatively unobtrusive, and Harry only noticed because of the boredom that was threatening to kill him; Hermione was thoroughly absorbed in a scroll she was writing on, while Ron was dozing over his own scroll.

"I'm gonna get a different book," Harry muttered with an intentional lack of enthusiasm, to which Hermione absently voiced a noncommittal grunt.

Harry languidly got up from his seat and disappeared behind a bookshelf before miraculously coming to life; he swiftly sneaked out of the library, using shelves and desks for cover. Once through the library doors, Malfoy was nowhere to be seen. With a rush of borderline-panicked adrenaline, Harry dashed down the hallway – surely Malfoy couldn't have gotten too far! – and hurled himself down the staircase. . .

Only to find that he had almost hurled himself right into the very person he was looking for. He stopped so short that he actually stumbled down the last few stairs before gracelessly finding his balance on the landing – none of this accomplished, of course, without a few choice expletives. Harry's face was quite flushed with embarrassment as he forced his eyes up to look at Malfoy, a few steps up with a mouth slightly ajar in surprise, but with the same bitter and hateful scowl that Harry had become accustomed to in only a day.

Still, Malfoy said nothing and, though he managed to close his mouth, his expression remained eerily frozen, as if someone had cast a _Petrificus_ on his crystalline features. He walked as he always had – an elegant movement of long legs, an effortless flow of strong arms, the purposeful sway of his back – except that he walked _around _Harry, with barely a look of recognition, and certainly without a single word. Now the arrogant ferret was heading down another flight of stairs as if Harry did not exist at all.

Harry knew what Hermione and Ron had told him about this world's "deal", but the idea of Malfoy simply _ignoring _him was ludicrous. Even when Harry had ignored him, Malfoy had never been able ignore him, probably not even if his life depended on it!

"Malfoy," Harry's voice called out angrily, surprising even himself.

Malfoy froze, hand still draped gracefully upon the banister, before turning around to look at the Gryffindor. It was only then Harry realized that the blond's viscous scowl was actually his normal expression: the vacant facade before him, tinted with calculation and suspicion, was most definitely Malfoy's game face. His eyes alone were almost made him feel like he was being dissected. Merlin, when and where had Malfoy learned to be so intimidating?

"Potter," came the low, icy voice.

Harry forced his faltering engine into action. He narrowed his own eyes and straightened his posture in an attempt to beef up his presence. "We need to have a conversation. Now, and in private."

Malfoy's lip curled a little, and his small nose wrinkled, and Harry watched with no small amount of wonder as the infamous Draco Malfoy actually bit back whatever malicious retort he clearly wanted to express. And then, in the instant it took Harry to notice it, it was gone, replaced again by emptiness. "Okay, Potter. Where do you propose we go to have this little chat of ours?"

Ugh, if decorum could kill. . .

Harry hadn't really thought about where, but since they were on the staircase anyway. . . , and, as it was so early in the school year, there probably wouldn't be that many snoggers up there. . . "The Astronomy tower," Harry answered firmly, pleased with his own quick thinking.

All Malfoy's game face showed was impatience, and he made a clearly irritated, wrist-heavy gesture upward that Harry took to mean that he should lead the way.

Up they walked in silence, Malfoy moving dispassionately while Harry tried hard not to fidget. How was he going to broach the subject with Malfoy? There was no subtle way to get his point across, at least that Harry could see; and even if there was, subtly certainly wasn't his forte. He'd almost rather blurt out his accusation than deal with the aftermath – that he could handle if only because he had been there before, many times.

Malfoy followed Harry into one of four small chambers located in the Astronomy Tower, then drew his own wand when Harry drew his. The two opposite, but equally dangerous youths eyeballed each other warily for a moment before Harry turned to cast a locking charm on the door and a silencing spell on the room. Finally, it was time to face off: wands out, though lowered; legs slightly apart in a defensive stance; muscles tensed and ready; eyes burrowing into each other.

Silence stretched for what felt like minutes, but was actually more like ten seconds.

"I know what you did last night," Harry started. In retrospect, he was proud of how composed he sounded.

Malfoy arched his eyebrow, while forcing his actual eye not to twitch in irritation. "Is that so?"

Harry felt a flare of heated vindication: that asshole actually knew what he was talking about! "Yes! And I'm not going to let you get away with it!"

Malfoy's game face broke into a sneer of pure contempt. "Oh really? And just what are you going to do about it, you stupid fuckwit?"

Harry took a deep breath, allowing the urge to strangle the infuriating blond to pass. "Well, I was hoping to resolve this without involving anyone else, but I will go to Dumbledore if necessary," Harry said, trying to sound as scathing and threatening as possible.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Fine, you do that."

Then he moved towards the door. And something about the interaction clicked in Harry's mind. "You're toying with me, you don't even know what I'm talking about," Harry accused.

Malfoy whipped around, game face gone and rage clearly displayed on his face. "No, Potter," he ranted poetic. "YOU are the one who is toying ME! We haven't had to exchange a single word in over five years, and now here you are, on the second day of classes, dragging me up to the fucking Astronomy Tower to accuse me of Merlin knows what, when I know perfectly well that there is no way you can incriminate me of anything I did last night!" His countenance changed back abruptly, and his voice lowered so that it became threatening, and almost snake-like. "Besides, you imbecile, I'm certainly clever enough to cover my tracks, _if _I were to ever indulge in any. . . dodgy activities."

Merlin, Harry really wanted to bitch-slap that rat bastard, but he found his mind working through the haze of his anger. If Malfoy didn't know anything, then he would have to bring the problem to Dumbledore (and it said a lot about Harry's relationship with the latter that he would rather subject himself to this encounter with Malfoy than deal with the Headmaster's infuriating, sugar-coated, two-faced scheming). Still, he hadn't quite given up on Malfoy as a source of information.

"Oh really," Harry retorted, attempting to imitate Malfoy's previous obnoxiousness. In the back of his mind, he was vaguely amazed to discover the degree to which goal-oriented conniving allowed him to ignore his anger. "Well, I know for a fact that you aren't that clever, Malfoy. Because I caught you last night, brewing a potion in the dungeon. Maybe you know of it? It's dark purple, contains Ent Tree's blood? Ring a bell?"

Malfoy was actually aggravated enough to reach up and rub his temples – why couldn't Potter just keep away like he had for so long? "Yes," he snapped. "_Quareo Tempus_, it's a time-altering. . ." Wait a moment. . .

Suddenly Malfoy's head snapped up and he frowned searchingly at Harry. What did the dark-haired Gryffindor know? How!

Bingo! Harry smirked.

Harry's smirk seemed to convince Malfoy to backpedal, his game face returned, and though evidence of slight anxiety could be detected around the eyes, he delivered his reply with utmost confidence and his own smirk. "It's a highly illegal time-altering potion. Punishable by a one way trip to Azkaban. But I don't see how that affects me. No matter what you think you saw, through your filth-infested spectacles, I didn't brew anything last night, and I do have several alibis to testify, under _Veritaserum_, to that fact."

It was strange how well Harry felt he could read Malfoy, almost as if his senses were heightened, almost as though an understanding of Malfoy tickled the recesses of his brain. Somehow, he got the definite impression that Malfoy was telling the truth – he undoubtedly knew more than he was voicing, but he wasn't lying about not participating in the event Harry clearly remembered from the night before.

"Well, maybe not in _this _timeline, but you did last night, in the real timeline, and now everyone is stuck in this weird universe where the seventh year Slytherins are missing and – this I really can't believe – there's actually a truce between you and me! Damn you, Malfoy, how can we have not spoken in two years! We fight all the time! We call each other names, we beat the crap out of each other, then we hex each other just for good measure!" Ugh, yeah, he hadn't meant to get so worked up, but now here he was, hot and slightly red in the face.

It was Malfoy's turn to revel in the power of thinking over emotion as he took a moment to ponder this truly outlandish unfolding of events. It was true that if he had used the potion in question upon himself, he wouldn't remember the previous time line. And, in his darkest hours, he _had_ thought several times of using the _Quareo Tempus_, he had even memorized the instructions for concoction – but how would Potter know that? Malfoy had never hinted to a soul that he even knew the coveted potion existed, to do so would have certainly brought all sorts of ugliness upon himself, and probably the world at large.

Plus, and this was the clincher, Malfoy knew for **certain **that he would never have ever picked changed time to . . . _this_. No matter how unbearable the original timeline, Malfoy was rightfully convinced that he (from whatever timeline) would never willfully subject himself to the grueling horror that was this timeline. No matter what scheme the other Malfoy had devised, he was surely clever enough to set it in motion in a timeline that involved a little less damage and stress to his precious self.

Malfoy turned his attention back to Harry – he could see the hints of a self-satisfied smile around faded lips, and it stoked his ever-present anger back to life. "Fuck you, Potter," Malfoy ground out, words dripping with venom. "You think you know what's going on, but you're bumbling around in the dark worse than Dumbledore. There are a few convincing elements to your ill-conceived fabrication, but you missed one important detail, asshole: no matter who I am in this hypothetical other timeline, I would never – and I do mean _never _– intentionally place myself in this timeline. Especially not when the potion in questionwould've given me a choice. And this is not to mention the fact that the secrets of the _Quareo Tempus_ have been lost for almost a century."

Malfoy never took his eyes off Harry as he turned slightly and muttered a _Finite Incantentem_ to unlock the door. The wheels in Harry's head spun vigorously, grasping for the words and logic that would defeat Malfoy's objections to his accusation, but he came up empty. He stared so hard at Malfoy's suddenly still back, trying to make out what he was failing to see just by looking at the figure, that he completely failed to anticipate the move when Malfoy whipped about and landed a debilitating roundhouse to Harry's jaw.

Harry fell to his butt with a cry of pain and surprise. That really fucking hurt! He promptly pointed his wand at Malfoy, while clutching his cheek and chin with his other hand. "Whah duh hell wad dah for," Harry yelled angrily, though he immediately felt stupid for asking. Like Malfoy ever needed a reason.

"Didn't want you missing the other me too much."

This time, when Malfoy smirked at him, it wasn't the grimace of hate and rage that Harry had been watching all day; instead, it was a true smile amusement – malicious amusement at the expense of others, true, but it was actually a step up.

Then, with a graceful swirl of his robes, Malfoy disappeared out the door, and Harry was left nursing his stinging jaw. He still couldn't believe it – had the other Malfoy pulled his punches, or was this Malfoy actually significantly stronger? 'Cause fucking OW! That bitch hurt!

The pain faded quickly, though it was obvious that there would be serious bruising and that he wouldn't be able to eat or talk properly for days. Harry eventually picked himself up, cast a glamour charm (the same he used to hide zits) on his face, and headed back to the Gryffindor Tower. It was a rather long walk at his languid pace, giving him plenty of time to stew over the events of the past half hour.

Of course, when he finally reached the Gryffindor common room, Ron and Hermione were there waiting on the couch and looking distinctly displeased. They both stood and walked towards him when he stepped through the portrait door.

"Harry! What happened to you, mate," Ron asked first. Well, maybe Ron wasn't that mad; he looked more interested in the details of the encounter than telling Harry off.

Alas (but of course), Hermione had distinctly different interests. "Harry Potter! Of all the irresponsible – You better not have gotten in a fight with. . . _him_."

Harry noted that Hermione did not use Malfoy's name; given the number of Gryffindors from various years that were curiously watching them, Harry was actually grateful for her discretion. And he was going to repay her by taking complete advantage, because he really couldn't handle a scene right now. Too much had happened today, he just wanted to be alone to think.

"No," he lied shamelessly. "I didn't get into a fight, just some harmless talking." At this, both Ron and Hermione looked distinctly skeptical, and Harry rushed on before they could interrupt. "You were right, he didn't remember anything about last night, but I was able to pump him for information anyway. I know you don't really believe me, but if you want I'll give you the details tomorrow. Right now, I just want to go bed."

Ron looked a little shocked, while Hermione was definitely on the verge of an angry outburst. Harry bypassed both reactions by quickly moving past his two friends and muttering, "Goodnight."

Hermione didn't say anything, though Harry could imagine her half-mad, half-hurt expression.

"But, Harry. . .," Ron started plaintively.

Jogging up the stairs and into his room, then flopping onto his bed, Harry didn't think he had ever felt so relieved to be alone again. His thoughts were in turmoil, but he decided that that was to be expected. Not everything made sense, but it was obvious that he was missing several vast pieces of the puzzle. Still, tomorrow was another day. He'd talk to Dumbledore and his friends; maybe he could even get Hermione to help him research that – what was it called again? _Quaero Tempus_, he thought that was it.

Without too much difficulty, he fell into a restful sleep, convinced that everything was going to be alright; after all, tomorrow was going to be a new day.

. . . end . . .

PLEASE REVIEW. Tell me what you think. Is it too wordy? There's a lot of description and explanation in this chapter, I know. I wish I could promise less in the future, but there's going to be a lot more before the story is done.


	4. Day Two, Part One: Double Trouble

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Reviewers: Thank you!

Ch. 4: Day 2, Part 1: Double Trouble

Yawn, sigh.

_Beepbeep. Beepbeep. Beepbeep. BEEEP!_

Harry rolled over, feeling refreshed and content. . . for about three seconds before his eyes flew open and he remembered. He sat up and grabbed his glasses to look around as his roommates showed the first signs of life.

"YAAAWAAAGHHH!"

Everything seemed so. . . normal. Whatever had changed Malfoy's life certainly hadn't had much of an impact on Gryffindor daily life. Unless. . . what if yesterday was only an unsettling dream?

Harry gave up inspecting his roommates and figured that he'd just judge how to play it as he went along. He didn't think he would be surprised by either possibility – dream or not; sometimes his reality was almost like a dream, while some of his dreams were realities. Some mornings he even woke expecting to be back in Surrey with the Dursleys, while other nights he woke from nightmare visions of real events far away. Though the latter were rarer now, thanks to his basic training in occlumency.

He got up, showered, dressed and walked down to the common room with Neville and Ron, who gave no indication of being affected by the last night's exchange at all. When Hermione acted perfectly normal too, Harry was actually beginning to feel relieved.

"Did you guys do the Transfigurations reading," Hermione asked sternly as they passed through the portrait of the Fat Lady.

"Uh, kinda," Ron answered sleepy, giving his scalp a scratch for good measure.

The brunette turned her eyes to Harry, eyebrows arched questioningly, but with a look that definitely indicated that she knew the answer. Hermione had grown quite cute over the years – she had learned to manage her unruly hair, while her facial and bodily proportions grew more appealing; and she had this way of smiling sometimes that really made watchers know they were in the presence of someone very special.

Harry shook his head, but had the decency to feel and look embarrassed: he didn't even remember having Ad Trans reading. It was a game that they sometimes played, Hermione would pretend to be disapproving, but was actually pleased to have the opportunity to lecture Ron and Harry about the missed reading. It got excessive sometimes, but it wasn't a bad deal for the boys – listening to (or just tuning out) Hermione was certainly easier than either reading or understanding the actual assignment.

Harry smiled fondly at his friends as they made their way through the corridors, into the Great Hall. He listened to the lecture with half an ear, as instincts urged him to check the Slytherin table, just to make sure that all was as it should be.

His heart sunk, and his body was suddenly tense with anxiety. Not only were all but two of the seventh year Slytherins absent, but Malfoy, Zabini, and Parkinson were also conspicuously missing. Dread began to infuse the periphery of his feelings as he walked to his table, glancing around awkwardly to scan for any other unusual happenings. He sat down quickly and immediately addressed his friends.

"Guys," he undertoned, continuing when he had their undivided attention. "I'm sorry about last, I was confused and I needed to think. Of course I'm going to tell you what I learned from Malfoy."

Something was definitely wrong, Harry could tell from their reactions – puzzlement at first to sudden bewilderment at the mention of Malfoy's name.

"Uh, Harry, mate," Ron started apprehensively. "I wasn't aware that anything had happened with Malfoy."

"_What we talked about yesterday_," Harry hissed, rather annoyed, and – admittedly – a little afraid. Ron was looking at him as if he was loony, while Hermione was definitely regarding him with concern. They didn't know what he was talking about!

"What do you remember talking about yesterday," Hermione asked, sounding every bit the little therapist.

Harry sighed: was he going to have to go through all this again? He forced down the panic that threatened to break loose. This time-alteration was obviously quite more problematic than originally supposed – and that was saying a lot. All Harry's alarmed wits could figure to do was to go to Dumbledore, and it was all he could do not to get up immediately.

"We had a conversation about time-changing," Harry gritted out.

"No we didn't," Ron responded redundantly. Hermione, however, immediately got the possible implications of his declaration, and her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Who would do something like that," she questioned reasonably. "And what do you propose has been changed?"

Harry sincerely hoped that he would do a better job of convincing his friends this time around.

"Malfoy. Yesterday the change had something to do with all the seventh year Slytherins being absent, but something's changed again today if you don't remember talking about it yesterday," Harry said with passion even while trying to keep his voice down.

Ron was looking at him with mouth slightly agape, while Hermione seemed to be genuinely struggling against her skepticism.

"Haha, Harry. You almost had me there for a second, but Malfoy? Ha," Ron snorted in amusement. Hermione had the decency to roll her eyes at Ron's blatant show of distain, but she clearly shared his sentiments.

"Really, Harry. If this is about revenge for what his father – "

Hermione stopped short as Ginny and Dean sat themselves down right next to the trio. Ron and Hermione immediately changed conversation topic, while Harry launched into his breakfast irritably. He left shortly, exchanging odd looks with his friends, and went to Dumbledore's office, where he spent five futile minutes guessing candy names. Unsuccessful, he ran to Double Advanced Charms, and was only two minutes late. Flitwick was a pushover and Harry got away with a stern (silly?) glare.

He was flustered, but he settled at a desk next to Ron and pulled out a quill and some parchment. Only then he did look up and take better notice of his surroundings. Professor Flitwick was lecturing, focused intently on his wand and the motions he was making with it. Hermione was watching, nodding slightly, taking notes from time to time. Ron was playing with his wand, vaguely imitating the professor.

Harry turned his eye to the Slytherins, out of habit, and frowned slightly at noting that Zabini and Parkinson were present now, sitting next to each other, apparently cultivating ennui. But still no Malfoy.

Harry itched to ask questions, especially about Malfoy, but Hermione was sitting between him and Ron, and studiously ignoring both boys' attempts to get her attention. Out of sheer boredom, Harry actually resorted to paying attention to the short professor. The next class was Advanced Potions, and Harry finally managed to partially satisfy his curiosity during the brisk walk to the dungeons.

"Hermione, tell me what's going on. No one seems to be surprised that Malfoy is not here. Why," Harry discretely interrogated.

Hermione stopped in her tracks to gaze at her messy-haired friend with thoughtful concern. Was she evaluating his sanity and the possible truth of his claims?

Whatever she was concluded, she deemed it acceptable to answer his question and, face straight ahead, she started up her quick pace again. "Malfoy never makes it to morning classes. I imagine that he is usually sleeping off the last night's activities, or maybe just medicating for the day to come."

Harry couldn't help but gape at her for a moment. What did she mean by _that_? What 'activities'? 'Medicating'! The outrage was obvious in his voice. "What is that supposed to mean!"

She dared a glance at him as they descend a staircase. "You know what it means. Too much sex and a magic addiction," she hushed.

This time Harry tried harder not to look like an idiot in his reaction. He could still barely believe his ears, but he managed a nod, accompanied by a swallow. Merlin, what the hell is a magic addiction?

He never managed to ask his question, for he suddenly found himself walking into the Potions classroom and the immediate scrutiny of yet another hated nemesis – Snape.

He sighed as he took his seat next to Hermione, perversely relieved that it was the desk closest to the door. Snape glared at him, but he had, over the years, grown used to it, and was relatively able to ignore the constant stream of hostility, as long as the bastard didn't actually address him.

Snape quickly and viciously launches into his lecture, and the students snapped to attention. Then pursued a verbal borage of academic background information, interrupted suddenly by –

The door noisily begun to open and all heads turned. . . to glance at Malfoy as he slumped into the classroom.

"How gracious of you to grace us with your presence, Mr. Malfoy," Snape said irritably, to which several students giggled.

Malfoy exchanged his own blank look for a disappointed one from his head of house. Then he just stood there, head slightly bowed, strangely still, until Snape barked, "Don't wait for your invitation, Mr. Malfoy. Take your seat."

His seat was, apparently, the desk in the far corner of the room, the space furthest away from Harry and from the door. And, if the despondency in his walk along the periphery of the room was any indication, then Malfoy knew it too. Hardly anyone else paid any notice, except for Parkison and, oddly, Boot – both who emitted soft but recognizable sniggers.

After that, Harry found it hard to focus, especially once the brewing began. He was lucky that Hermione was his partner, or else he would have surely managed to ruin their potion. . . Not that Harry really saw much during his frequent glances across the room – shock just kept forcing him to look back. As far as he could tell, Malfoy was just slouched against the desk, gazing motionlessly at the wall. . . for, like, the entire hour of class!

The panic returned with a vengeance as the new Malfoy slowly but surely freaked Harry out. He HAD to talk to Dumbledore!

"Mr. Potter!"

"Yes, sir!" Harry swallowed anxiously, his spiked nerves threatening nausea. Snape was towering over him, studying him closely and looking extremely displeased at his findings.

"What's wrong with you, Potter? You're not your usual abhorrent self," the potions master sneered.

A rush of anger actually soothed his nerves and he found it relatively easy not to rise to Snape's baiting. "Nothing is wrong, sir. I am just tired."

Though it was a cold comfort, Harry got some satisfaction from watching Snape's face sour even more when he failed to get the outburst he wanted.

"Fine. 10 points from Gryffindor for not paying attention." And with his usual flurry of robes, Snape left and returned to doing rounds about the classroom.

By the end of class, Harry had lost Gryffindor 25 points, managed a passing grade on his and Hermione's potion, worked up a nervous sweat and stress cramps, and was going to explode if he didn't get out of there. . . NOW!

"Dismissed," Snape barked, as if torn between wanting to torture them more and just wanting to be rid of their odious presences.

Harry leapt from his seat, ripped the door open, and dashed out of the room – earning quite a few stares. He ran through the dungeon, up the stairs, then more stairs, then a hallway, then –

Harry jerked to a standstill in front of familiar gargoyles. A suspicious flash of insight suggested the password. "Diamond bars."

Sure enough, the passageway opened to reveal winding stairs and Harry quickly found himself pushing open the door to Dumbledore's office.

"Harry, my boy! Come on in! Take a seat," Dumbledore urged with his usual obnoxiously upbeat vigor.

Harry sat without a word, though the Headmaster seemed to have enough for both of them. "Would you like a lemon drop," he offered, proffering a tin of candies before Harry.

"No thanks."

Dumbledore promptly began pouring one, then two cups of tea, before asking, "Would you like some tea?"

Harry found his patience being seriously tested. Why was this geezer always so infuriating? "No, thank you, sir. I have some serious business I would like to discuss."

"Well, then we should get down to business, shouldn't we," Dumbledore asked flippantly, as though he weren't a man whose business including leading one faction of a terrible civil war.

"My point exactly," Harry gritted out. Leaning forward, he quickly launched into what he wanted to say. There was no way he was going to give that old man one more second to fill with inanity. "Two days ago Draco Malfoy changed time. You yourself set me on his trail by telling me someone had stolen Ent Tree blood, and I caught him in the act. But too late I guess because yesterday I woke up and things were a little strange. And today they're even weirder! Time must've changed twice!"

His delivery was good, if faintly laced with hysteria. Harry was relieved to see that Dumbledore actually appeared to frown – he just might have attacked his headmaster if he'd smiled. Or, worse . . . _twinkled_ at him.

But Dumbledore was studying him, looking deep into his eyes, and Harry was justifiably paranoid about the headmaster using Legimency on him. Harry wished he was in a position to storm out of the office, but instead he found himself relieved that Dumbledore could get a glimpse himself of what Harry knew was in the process of going down.

Finally, the headmaster pulled up majestically from his seat and leaned over with his palms planted on his desk. He looked down at Harry firmly, "Very well then, Harry. It seems to me that a task has fallen upon you. You find yourself unexpectedly and uniquely entangled in this affair, but only you are well-equipped to execute this mission. If you believe that time has been changed, then fix it. I am busy right now with pressing affairs at the moment. There is, after all, an intercontinental war against Tom Riddle."

Harry bowed his head and clenched his fists, hit by both shame and anger. Dumbledore knew how much he wanted to do more for the war effort, and this is what he got? Sirius was dead and he gets stuck fixing Malfoy's temporal fuckup!

Of course, on the other hand. . . he was the obvious choice to charge with the duty. And he had survived worse, hadn't he? It might even be interesting, despite having the shit scared out of him by the enormity of what was at stake. Couldn't the old man throw him a bone? "Is that all you've got for me," Harry asked, managing to keep his voice steady..

The headmaster, now sitted again, smiled and tilted his head, as if to think, but with a telltale _twinkle_ . . . "Well, I do have _one_ idea. Professor Snape might know something about temporal anomalies, and the potions that cause them."

Hmmm. . . not a very pleasant prospect, a scraggly bone at best. But it was a direction, and Snape surely knew plenty, if only Harry could get him to talk. Plus, maybe he could hit up Dumbledore again tomorrow; though that Legimency thing. . . With a sigh, he stood and exchanged farewells with both Dumbledore and the magnificent phoenix.

Harry stopped just short of the door, then turned slightly to ask, "Sir, can I ask just one more question?"

"Of course, Harry," the santa-esque old man said gently.

Harry glanced straight to fix his eyes on a faded blue space of sky through the window, and he founding it relaxingly easy to keep his features blank. "What is 'magic addiction'?"

Dumbledore's face sobered, though Harry did not see it, and he took a loaded moment before responding. "It's when a wizard or witch becomes addicted to casting certain spells upon themselves. It's a psychological effect, and so can develop in regards to any spell, from glamour charms to masochistic hexes. Still, the dependency is often upon euphorics, mood stabilizers, tranquilizers, and such."

Harry took a moment of his own, before turning back to the door and passing through; but not quickly enough to miss the headmaster's final words, "If it's Malfoy that you're really asking about, then maybe you should ask him."

Harry hurried down the spiral staircase and away, not knowing how to react. Now that the conversation with Dumbledore was over, he found himself wanting nothing more than to put the whole affair behind him. Now stress urged him to focus his energy on the future. Which meant. . .

Should he engage Malfoy?

It was quite the question. Harry was _really_ curious, to the point that sheer curiosity was almost enough for him to submit himself to whatever hell interacting with Malfoy was likely involve. Surely he couldn't be much worse than his last two manifestations. At least this one hadn't changed time at the behest of a psychotic mass-murderer.

The very thought stoked Harry's anger and quashed any sympathy he might have felt for any Malfoy. No, he would go to Malfoy with what he knew to extract more information from the scum-bucket.

In moments his feet carried him to the Great Hall in time for a quickie bite to eat. He exchanged numerous loaded glances with his two best friends, but managed to keep his mouth occupied enough with eating to avoid being asked any questions. Not that the Gryffindor table was ever a good place for sensitive conversation On the way to Care of Magical Creatures, Ron and Hermione managed to illicit a promise to talk with them later and tell them all he knew about what was going on.

No Slytherins took Advanced CoMC, in any timeline.

Advanced Transfiguration was the next – and last – class of the day.

Malfoy even oozed in on time, again depositing himself in a desk at the far corner from the door. Harry watched him, and Hermione watched Harry. Malfoy was a lot closer than he had been during Potions, so Harry got his first good look at the boy and was shocked.

He was freaky skinny! Like a model, all gaunt face, long legs, no fat, no muscle. . . It was down right creepy. And his hair! His straight blond, chin length, definitely girly hair, framing eerily feminine features. Without his buff, Malfoy looked like a chick!

_Uh_, a slightly attractive one at that.

"Mr. Potter," interrupted Professor McGonagall.

Shit, caught twice in one day! The guilt is obvious on his face. "Yes, ma'am."

"Would you care to demonstrate," his head of house asked patronizingly.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I can't," Harry answered contritely, knowing McGonagall was the one teacher who took crap from no one.

"And why not, Mr. Potter?" She was a bit of a bitch too.

"Because I wasn't paying attention. It won't happen again."

Finally, the penance of public humiliation was over, and Professor McGonagall graced him with a smile. "See that it doesn't," she said graciously, and asked a volunteer to demonstrate.

. . . Chapter End. . .

PLEASE REVIEW. Reading over this chapter, it felt a little choppy, whatcha think? Keep an eye out for the next chapter – Harry vs. Draco, round 3!


	5. Day Two, Part Two: Who Are You, And What...

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Note: I would like to dedicate this chapter to my drug addiction, which I have been struggling to kick in recent months – with mixed results. May you rest in peace and plague me no longer! If any of my readers are curious as to what an addiction feels like, the behavior and mindset of both my protagonists are good indications.

Dear Readers: Sorry it took so long to update, will try to be morel timely with the next chapter. Thanks for reviewing! To those who have written wanting to know what changes in the past result in different Malfoys, have patience! All will be revealed in time!

Chapter 5: Day Two, Part Two: Who Are You, And What Have You Done With Malfoy?

The last class of the day finally crept to its end, and Harry itched to make some progress on his 'mission'. In the hours of class, he had had plenty of time to think about rectifying the timeline, and he had managed to work himself up a militaristic drive. And if Malfoy was a lead, then his mission led to Malfoy.

As joint-captain Ron dragged him to Quidditch tryouts after class, much to his frustration and irritation. A ridiculous number of Gryffindor youngsters were trying their novice hands at flying and hitting and scoring, and random students from all houses – save Slytherin – were sitting around on the bleachers watching. Indeed, fifteen minutes in Harry noticed that Malfoy was there too, laying across three of the highest bleacher rows. From Harry's vantage point up on his broom, it appeared that Malfoy was sun-bathing, just sprawled out motionlessly and pale, with eyes closed.

It was difficult to pay attention to the tryouts after that, as Harry's eyes kept darting back to the still figure. It was more than Malfoy's presence on the field that was bothering him, it was Malfoy's sudden perpetual presence in his _mind_. Harry didn't think he had given as much thought to the ferret in the last five years as he had in the last two days. Something was humming in the background of his thoughts, and at first he had chalked it up to being out of sync with the timeline, but it was becoming increasingly clear that whatever it was had more to do with Malfoy. The mental fuzz would actually change slightly, yet noticeably, with Harry's proximity to the other boy.

When Malfoy finally stirred forty minutes later, Harry almost fell off his broom. Malfoy was sitting up, getting up, and leaving; Harry lunged single-mindedly for the opportunity, landing his broom near Ron, who looked tired but excited. The number of contenders had been significantly whittled down, and a few of the remaining Gryffindors actually showed some promise.

"Ron, I have to go do something," Harry said bluntly, not willing or bothered to come up with an excuse.

Ron voice, though hushed, was halfway between whining and anger. "What! Harry, I can't do this without you!"

Harry was remotely pleased to discover that this whole 'mission' thing came fully equipped with a sense of entitled priority. Harry slapped Ron on the back as he turned away from his friend. "Yes you can, mate!"

And with that, Ron was left sputtering as Harry headed towards the Hogwarts, where he could see a platinum-topped shape approaching the door. Harry hurried after, and was surprised to see Malfoy pass by the doors and continue around an outcrop the castle to disappear from view.

A minute later Harry too rounded the outcrop and followed Malfoy as he took a winding route towards a particularly rocky segment of the lake's shore. Grass turned to sandstone, then Harry was climbing over rocky shelving to find where Malfoy was camped. A few moments yielded results, for there was the blond, gazing at Harry from where he sat on the sandy ground of a stone crater, elbows resting on casually raised knees and his wand hanging limply from his hand.

His eyes were a little unfocused and droopy, and he commented emotionlessly, "You might want to work on stealth, Potter. You were pretty noisy on those rocks."

Harry responded with the first thing that came to mind. "Well, you shouldn't be spying on our tryouts!" Uh, maybe not the best response.

A faint smile of amusement tugged at Malfoy's thin lips, and the lanky youth tilted his head back, again as if basking in the sun. "Why would I do that? No one cares about anything I have to say about Quidditch."

Of course, this Draco Malfoy probably didn't play Quidditch, his body certainly lacked an athlete's muscles. Harry tried to search the enigmatic face for bitterness or deception, but there was nothing. As if yesterday's game face had become a real face.

Harry jumped down into the crater. "I don't know, I think you'd make a good seeker," he said, almost smiling at his words.

Malfoy didn't smile, didn't even open his eyes. "Do you say that to all the girls, or only the ones you knocked off a broom second year?"

Harry frowned at his words. "Only you. . ." Merlin, this whole exchange was bizarre in the extreme. Surely he wasn't _flirting _with Malfoy? And what was this about MALFOY being the one who had been knocked off his broom second year!

Malfoy sighed and sat up a little straighter, finally actually looking at Harry. "So what can I do for you, Mr. Potter? Is this business, pleasure, or practice?" Harry could barely believe it, but Malfoy almost sounded eager. "Not that there isn't a strong dose of all three in each." And then Malfoy actually grunted in amusement! It was the most life Harry had seen the effete Slytherin show all day.

But he was lost as to what the conversation had become, and he tried to pace a little in the confined area available. "I dunno. What do you propose we practice?" Practice seemed like the safest bet.

Malfoy actually grinned! It lit up his emaciated face and Harry had a rush of foreboding before the other boy jumped up and quickly pulled his robe over his head leaving. . . thin, rumbled clothes clinging teasingly to a body shivering slightly in the chilly air, and a predatory look burrowing into him. "Anything you want, _Harry_."

Then Malfoy was advancing upon him; and even though some remote nether region may have experienced a vague sense of arousal, distress overwhelmed Harry so that he stumbled backwards. The last thing he wanted was physical contact with this creepy, unnatural version of Malfoy – model's looks or not!

The blond beauty halted his progress and studied Harry detachedly: the famously scarred Gryffindor was definitely behaving strangely. He couldn't put his finger on it, but the usual arrogance was missing, and in its place was hesitance. It was odd, almost as if he was feeling some new connection with Potter that he had never felt with him before. But that was impossible, Draco was incapable of having connections with anyone.

As for Harry, a shiver ran through him, and he forced himself to gather his wits before Malfoy grew suspicious. "I'm open to ideas," he choked out.

The elfin boy arched an eyebrow at Harry, then smirked, and for a moment he almost looked like the old Malfoy that Harry had reluctantly grown up with; and this was strangely encouraging. "Well," Malfoy purred. "I think your hand is already telling us where you want to start."

Only then did Harry notice where his hand had rested for most of their exchange – on his belt, where his wand was secured. He swallowed nervously, and dared himself to brandish his wand, which he promptly did. He couldn't believe what was happening!

"A duel then," he heard himself say. Merlin, he couldn't believe what. . . he was _participating_ in! A duel, in this tiny natural confine, with freaky Malfoy! It was a recipe for disaster, Harry knew, but he was like a train on a track – there was only one way forward, come hell or high water.

Malfoy stood back and took up a lax dueling stance, his wand held forward loosely but unwaveringly. After a long moment of waiting for Harry to cast first, he flicked his wrist. "Nudeo."

It was a relatively weak hex, and Harry instinctively dodged, but he found himself suddenly minus his school robe and his button down shirt. It was cold outside with only an undershirt and pants, especially with the sun beginning to set.

Harry was shocked, but his instincts were good. He shot back an incantation that had ropes materializing from his wand, shooting towards Malfoy. The Slytherin managed to duck sufficiently not to be bound, but still fell to the ground in a heap of ropes. He awkwardly scrambled out, his hair attractively mussed, and a shameless look of excitement on his face. "Subo!" It was a favorite spell of Malfoy's, despite (or maybe because of) the fact that it often incited emotion instability along with its intended effects.

At such a close distance, it was practically impossible to completely avoid the hexes the boys were throwing at each other; so it is of little surprise that Harry was again the brunt of a partial – but much more forceful – hit. Yet, the effects were not immediately apparent, and it was not a hex with which Harry was familiar. But he was beginning to feel warm and a little queasy, and this realization caused a rush of panic. "Expelliramus! Confundus!"

Malfoy's wand shot out of his hand to smacked straight into a bolder. Malfoy himself teetered for a moment before half-sitting, half-falling falling on his ass. He glanced around at the ropes strewn on the ground before gazeing up at Harry with a lost and confused expression. "What're you doing here, Potter?"

Harry lowered his wand, but in looking at the disheveled blond he became increasingly aware of just what Malfoy's curse had done to him. He wasn't just _warm_, he was _hot_. Blood was quickly making its way to his face and crotch, while his heart rate and breath picked up. But none of this was as disturbing as just how appealing Malfoy had suddenly become. He was. . . stunning. His big blue eyes were even bigger on a thinner face; his lips were thinner too, less petulant. His hair and skin were rare and magnificent hues of light, while long legs stretched up to only hint at all the sexuality that surely lay underneath.

Harry swallowed loudly. The curse didn't seem to care that he was _straight_.

"Where's my wand," Malfoy asked, sounding puzzled, but unconcerned. Harry hadn't realized it at the time, but a Confundus charm was really not the most effective spell to use against someone who already lived most of their days in a magic-induced hazed.

Harry's eyes flicked to where Malfoy's wand had fallen, before returning to stare at the attractive creature before him. Malfoy craned his neck to make sure that he wand was, in fact, over where Harry had glanced, then turned his attention back to the toned Gryffindor.

Potter was _really_ staring at him, eyes wandering his body and mouth slightly ajar. Ah, yes, and there was the telltale licking of the lips. . . Draco had been on the receiving end of so many looks that he might as well have been able to read Potter's mind. He didn't need to know what was going on to be able to play along.

Malfoy smiled mischievously, seductively; and Harry watched, lustfully and warily, as he stood gracefully and sauntered over to where his wand lay. Malfoy purposely bent at the waist to give Harry an eyeful of his delectable ass.

Harry choked a little, but he was powerless to act. He was torn between knowledge that it was just a curse and the desire that was suddenly raging through him so fiercely that it was threatening to make him ill. He found himself beginning to think that he didn't really care that it was a curse. He was in some fucked up timeline where apparently Malfoy was a slut, and it seemed pretty obvious that getting it on with Malfoy would be exceedingly hot. Even when the curse wore off and his hatred of Malfoy returned, Harry would still have the memory of great sex, which seemed almost worth it to his teenage, virgin, lust-riddled mind. Besides, once he changed time back, no one needed to know, not that anyone would even believe him. . . What was the Hell was the freak doing now!

Malfoy had stood again, back to Harry and was muttering quietly – though in their limited confines, it was still loud enough to hear. "Sedo. . . Placidus Mundus. . . Stolidus. . ."

A bizarre and inexplicable empathy allowed Harry to sense a sudden shift in Malfoy's aura, almost as if the sudden calmness and quiet from the other's mind was leaking into his own.

When the Slytherin turned back around, the wand in his hand made it obvious what he had been doing, and Harry wasn't so far gone as to not have his curiosity piqued. He recognized the last spell – it slowed the mind and dulled the wits – courtesy of Ron. Apparently the spell was a favorite of Bill's, now that he was too 'mature' (read: too cool) for more flamboyant hexes.

"What do, uh, those spells do?"

Unsurprisingly, Malfoy seemed to be having difficulty getting his response together. His eyes were drooped half-closed, and his whole body was so slack that Harry was surprised that he still stood. His mouth opened slightly a couple times, as though it wanted to reply even if the mental power wasn't there.

Malfoy's shaky legs lowered him to the ground, where he sprawled out on his back. Harry stepped forward out of – what? Concern? Or lust? Even laying there, unhealthily thin, unnaturally calm, _looking _like an addict, he was still beautiful, and Harry still felt a demanding, if damning, arousal. The whole situation was beginning to make him feel pervy, so he used his remaining will power and logical reasoning to back away from the still figure. His gut knew that whatever was happening here was not good.

He only managed a couple steps and was about to climb out of the crater, trying to figure how he would transform himself a new shirt, when he was called back by a slurred voice. "Where yuh goin'?"

Harry turned around slowly, a little afraid of the outcome of prolonging this interaction with Malfoy. "I'm leaving," he answered, displeased at how unconvinced he sounded.

Malfoy stretched tantalizingly from where he lay, yawning then mumbling weakly, "Lets fuck instea'."

Lust flared up, and Harry's resolve weakened. This must be what it is like to be Malfoy, to have an addiction – to know exactly what you should _not_ do, but to be powerless to stop yourself from doing it. Then again, Malfoy wasn't giving any indication of caring about what he should or should not do. So surely a bit of kissing wouldn't hurt?

Feeling conflicted and torn up inside, filled with self-loathing, Harry found himself moving back towards the blond, kneeling next to his prostrate form, and touching him. . . He trailed reluctant fingers along the soft skin of Malfoy's jaw, his own face frowning intensely. Malfoy's eyes fluttered open, revealing cloudy, amazingly-colored eyes. They were hypnotic, and Harry forgot his apprehensions as a hand laced into his thick hair and pulled his face towards pale pink lips.

Harry was only hesitant for a moment, then he was passionately kissing Malfoy. The Slytherin's lips were cool and indifferent, but Harry had already resigned himself to his actions, immersed himself in the sensory experience, and abandoned the reasoning that would have cared much about Malfoy's participation. Neurons were firing excitedly, stimulating the brain's pleasure center, and Harry felt a rush of dopamine and adrenaline.

He shifted quickly so that he was laying on top of his beautiful nemesis, eagerly kissing him and pawing at the clothed body. Malfoy lay motionless for long moments, allowing the frantic groping, before finally showing life by arching up his hips to grind them against the bigger boy. Harry pulled away to gasp for air. Breathing heavily, he looked down at the delicate creature beneath him: eyes closed, face slack and passive, lips swollen. . . he was barely recognizable as the Draco Malfoy he had known for five years.

"You're exquisite," he said unthinkingly, hungrily.

Malfoy lazily cracked his eyelids, finally displaying some emotion with an expression of mild annoyance. "Yuh alwayz say dat before we fuck. I wish yuh wouldn't."

WHAT THE FUCKING HELL! Panic stabbed at Harry. He had neither the time nor the intellectual inclination to determine exactly why Malfoy's words alarmed his so; indeed, he barely realized the comment's implications before he impulsively catapulting himself into a reaction.

His hands tightened painfully around Malfoy's thin arms, but the blond seemed completely unaffected by the sudden shift in Harry's emotions. Anger and fear flooded into him, mixing with the panic and lust, and amplifying all his feelings. Half-reasoned thoughts raced through his mind:

Malfoy was manipulating him! Using him! Raping him! Like in the muggle world, but with magic instead of drugs! Or maybe Malfoy was lying to him! There is no way in Hell that Harry had, even in this timeline, taken this conniving prick as a fuckbuddy! Addicted to magic or not, Malfoy was evil, and was somehow up to something; maybe this timeline's Harry had been fooled by Malfoy's slut act, but HE knew what the real Malfoy was capable of!

Harry's grip tightened even more, so that Malfoy finally winced, though he made no objection. The lack of reaction only spiked Harry's already erratic emotions, and he acted impulsively. "Legimens!"

His plunge into Malfoy's mind met no resistance, but the reality of what he was doing was like falling into freezing water. Malfoy's reaction was almost instantaneous, and it was most certainly the reaction of someone who had been on the receiving end of Legimency many times. Harry was bombarded with image flashes, so quick that it took a moment for him to orient himself to what he was seeing – brutal, mean, dirty, ugly sex.

A tanned bint straddling a pale torso, a frantic tangle of near-black and snow-colored limbs, white on white smeared with dark red, a flushed teenage body pumping into a pale one, and more and more. Draco Malfoy in every position imaginable, with uncountable different partner, sometimes writhing in pain or pleasure, sometimes as motionless and unparticipating as a corpse. As emotionally volatile as Harry had been moments before, shock made him suddenly numb and unreacting; had this not all been in his head, his mouth would've been hanging open.

Why in Merlin's name was Malfoy showing this too him? Was it supposed to turn him on? Horrify him? Both possibilities seemed equally likely. Gradually, growing nausea forced Harry's mind into action. He was in the other boy's mind for a reason, he was looking for evidence of his relationship with Maloy in this timeline.

Almost as if Malfoy could read his thoughts (which he probably could, under the circumstances), the barrage of unsettling images slowed, then finally stopped, settling on . . .

_Potter, standing relaxed, twirling his wand in his fingers. He was clad only in his boxers, pacing back and forth slowly. _

"_You can practice other spells on me, too, if you want." That was Draco, sounding coherent and placing definite emphasis on the word 'other'. He was lying on a stone floor, probably somewhere in the Hogwarts dungeons, and he was looking up at the Gryffindor Golden Boy._

_Potter looked like he had a pretty good idea what Draco was hinting at, but he asked anyway. "Like what?"_

_Draco gave Potter a calculating look, then spoke as a matter of negotiation. "Don't be coy, it doesn't suit you. If you're going to kill Voldemort, you're going to have to practice on someone. The Unforgivables are all pretty similar, casting wise. Practice the killing curse on animals, and the other two on me, then you should be ready when the time comes."_

_Potter's pacing slowed even more, and he was distinctly uncomfortable, to the point that he seemed to be stalling for time. "What do you get out of it?"_

_Draco felt a vague sense of irritation, but his emotions had long ago severed themselves from his actions and from any bodily manifestations. He could give a shit who won this war, his lot was the same either way – sex, pain, magic. Nothing else was real, not Potter, not the war, not even his father._

_His voice responded as evenly as before. "Fuck you. You know what I get out of it."_

_And Potter did – Draco's magic addiction was notorious, though this offer certainly stretched beyond anything Potter had imagined. "Each time we do this, you prove to me that you're even more messed up than I previously thought. You're a natural born sick fuck, Malfoy. A real lost cause."_

_Again, emotion flared in some detached inner place – anger this time – but it was nothing that mattered to Draco. There were very few feelings that he was actually able to feel. "Aren't you lucky then, 'cause you won't get a better offer, not one that will let you off so guilt-free anyway."_

_Potter finally stopped pacing and looked thoughtfully at Draco, though his features clearly displayed an element of disgust at the idea._

_Draco seized on this disgust, and exploited the low opinion so many held him in. A whorish expression took up residence on his face, and his voice became sickly sugary. "Come on, I know you're tempted. You need practice and training to save the world. You know that I want it, that you want to give it to me. In fact, I deserve it, for being such a stain on Hogwarts. It can't hurt, you said it yourself, I'm a lost cause. At least the Death Eater kids have dignity and goals, however misled. Me, I will sleep with both sides, betray both sides without a care, then die in a filthy bed of my own making._ _What am I? I am a scorpion. I'll sting the brave Gryffindor that is taking me across the river on his back, drowning us both, simply because it's my nature. I'm Peter Pettigrew's incarnation – "_

_That was all the goading it took, Potter's hot-tempered personality took care of the rest. "Crucio!"_

_Excruciating pain instantly coursed through Draco's naked body, contorting his face and sharply arching his back – the way he looked when he was really getting fucked really hard –_

Harry forcefully wrenched himself out of Malfoy's mind, physically reeling from the experience so that he was thrown from on top of Malfoy, landing on the rocky surface nearby. He was gasping and gagging, but a glance at Malfoy revealed that he was inhumanly unperturbed, motionlessly watching Harry through those distant eyes. The words of his other self came back to him, _You're a natural born sick bastard, Malfoy. A real lost cause._

But, of course, he wasn't, since Malfoy hadn't been a sick bastard in Harry's timeline, not that kind of sick bastard anyway. Which meant that Malfoy probably wasn't naturally evil either. Some intellectual strain within Harry was beginning to grasp the idea that, from a certain point of view, his experience was actually an intriguing lesson in sociology and socialization.

Still, disturbed horror was still squarely planted at the forefront of his mind. A split second decision had him grabbing his wand and bolting for the castle.


	6. Day Three, Part One: Déjà Déjà Vu My Fri...

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Readers: Thank you for your reviews!

Chapter 6: Day Three, Part One: Déjà Déjà Vu My Friends

Harry spent the rest of the evening in the owlry avoiding his housemates, particularly his two best friends. He had a sneaking suspicion that tomorrow they wouldn't remember anything he said (let alone his odd behavior), so discussing matters seemed of little use. He might as well save himself the aggravation of having them questioning his sanity, at least for the moment anyway. Right then he needed to think, gather the facts, and come up with a game plan.

Facts: Malfoy used a little heard of _Quareo Tempus_ potion to change time. The process was interrupted and so may not have been successfully completed. Somehow, both Harry and Malfoy were being affected daily by the potion, though in different ways.

Harry mentally cursed himself for his behavior with Malfoy earlier. He was trying very hard not to think about the numerous disturbing aspects of their interaction, and focused instead on his failure to retrieve any relevant from the Slytherin – which had been the whole point of confronting Malfoy in the first place.

After mulling over the events of the last two and a half days, he identified several leads.

Plan: First, research the _Quareo Tempus _potion at the library (possibly enlist help of Hermione). Second, ask to Snape about same (if necessary, tell the truth). Finally, talk to Malfoy again (whoever he might be tomorrow).

It was after nine, and the owlry was growing cold. In lieu of returning to the Tower, Harry decided to stay up all night – maybe he would learn something about the process by which the magic reset time. If nothing else, it might tell him at exactly what time the change took place.

The down side to this idea was the accursed memories that refused to be suppressed now that Harry's thoughts were no longer better occupied. Flashbacks of Malfoy, looking sexy and wanton; Malfoy, wasted and addicted to magic; Draco, abused and bleeding. . .

Harry frowned. Where did that memory come from? It must have been on of the flashes Malfoy had bombarded him with. Pale on pale, and blood, but nothing recognizable. . .

Harry pulled up knees where he was sitting on the cold floor, and leaned his forehead on his forearms. He was so confused about so much.

Did he find Malfoy attractive? At the time he had assumed his lust was a result of the hex, and he was right; but now that the curse had faded, he wasn't filled with the revulsion and regret he was expecting. Instead, he was feeling. . . upset and confused, obviously, but also. . . pained, saddened, curious, sympathetic. . . like, just maybe, a connection had been made. . .

Harry's distressed mind could only puzzle out this particular issue so far before instinctively and defensively averting to another track. Mainly, what the HELL kind of person had he turned into in this timeline? Was he wrong about what was happening, was his past changing too? Or had _his _Malfoy affected him more than he could have possibly known?

break

_Beepbeep. Beepbeep. Beepbeep. BEEEP!_

"YAAAWAAAGHHH!"

"Finnegan," came Ron's muffled voice. "I'm going to kill you again to today."

Neville snored on, while Dean fell out of bed with a _thump_, but without complaint. Harry rolled over and just buried his face in his pillow, determined to go back to sleep. At least it was Friday.

Seamus gathered his toiletries and walked all the way to the door before turning around. "COME ON! WE CAN SLEEP WHEN WE'RE DEAD!"

"AAAGH," Ron roared and shot out of bed to chase after his Irish roommate.

"Hunh," came Neville's sleepy grunt.

Harry rubbed his eyes depressively, fighting off what felt rather like a hangover (if the ache in his mind, the tension in his muscles, and the slight nausea in his stomach were anything to go by). This time, he was not surprised by any sudden recollection, rather he woke to virtually the same thoughts he had left off with the night before. He stared morosely at the ceiling. Really, why him? Why did this shit _always_ happen to him? A lot of it could be chalked up to fate – the prophesy and whatnot – but _this_ had nothing to do with the prophesy, possibly not even anything to do with Voldemort. Why couldn't it have been Ron or Hermione who had knocked over Malfoy's cauldron and got caught up in this maddening paradigm? If it had been Hermione, she probably would have already fixed the problem instead of stumbling around stupidly as he felt he was doing. He was not looking forward to another day of stumbling headlong into nasty surprises.

Harry sighed and coerced himself to get out of bed, but as soon as he stood he knew that he was not, in fact, hungover. Something was _wrong_, he could tell in his gut; or rather, in his mind. It took him a moment to understand the intuition better: he felt as if some distant, disconnected part of himself was suffering in agony and misery, and it was the depth of the despair that was making him slightly ill. A hunch insinuated that it was not actually a numb part of himself that was hurting, but that it was. . . Malfoy. Stubbornness, backed by a bit quality logic, dismissed this possibility out of hand, and forced Harry to block out the nagging background pain in favor going about his morning rituals. (After all, bizarre mental connections were almost as unheard of in the wizarding community as they were in the muggle world.)

The morning proceeded without further incident, his roommates seeming to sense his severe demeanor and hence giving him a wide berth. He arrived at breakfast early, where he sat, as always, with Ron and Hermione, who had a healthy respect for his foul moods. As expected, they showed no indication of remembering the conversations of the previous two days. Over at the Slytherin table, all the seventh years were missing, as well as Malfoy. Harry sincerely hoped that this did not foretell something similar to the day before. He honestly thought that he would rather deal with almost anything other than a horny psycho Draco Malfoy; even murderous Malfoy was preferable.

Harry sighed and turned to Hermione. Here we go again. . .

"Hermione, can I ask you a really really dumb question," he asked unenthusiastically. The knowledge that his actions would have no long term repercussions was beginning to be acutely felt. It didn't matter what this timeline's Hermione thought of his question, as tomorrow it would be as if it had never happened.

Hermione's expression was one of mild concern. "Of course." Then she smiled, trying to lighten the mood. "Ron does it all the time."

Ron looked like he wanted to say something indignant, but his mouth was full. . . which didn't actually stop him from trying to say something. "Dere no sush ting as uh stupi' kestion."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but was definitely amused. Harry was vaguely annoyed that their banter prevented him from just getting straight to the point. "Okay, it's going to be a really weird and obvious question, and you're going to think I'm nuts, but I need your answer to help me figure something out."

Concern and gravity returned to Hermione's face. "Go ahead then, I'll do my best."

With a deep breathe, Harry plunged in, whispering, "Where's Malfoy?"

Hermione's reaction was instantaneous – she looked as if she had just been slapped, paling slightly and tears welling in her eyes.

Ron's reaction was instantaneous too – he choked loudly for a second before coughing up his food and spraying it onto the table in front of him. A number of their Gryffindor compatriots eyed the scene strangely or laughed.

Hermione tried to calm her breathing and her features, but the question was really freaking her out. "Harry, why are you-"

Harry's frustration forced him to interrupt. "_Please_, 'Mione. Can't you just answer the question? I'll try to explain later, but this is important now."

Ron was still regaining his composure, and was beginning to look at both of his friends with obvious distaste for the conversation. Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose in a movement beyond her years. "Okay, Harry. I'll tell you what you already know. Malfoy's in Azkaban."

Harry had tried to ready himself for Hermione's answer and to prepare himself for any possibility, in order to avoid having his surprise written all over his face; but he had certainly not been prepared for _this_. Malfoy was a _minor_, minors weren't sent to Azkaban, no matter their Death Eater connections; Voldemort didn't even mark minors. What on earth did he do?

Uh oh. Harry hadn't meant to ask that out loud, but now Hermione was looking even more upset, and Ron's face was coloring in anger. "What are you getting at, mate," Ron demanded crossly. "Are you _trying _to ruin our breakfast?"

Harry knew that his friends had every right to react the way they were, but his own frustration at the whole fucked-up-time situation was increasingly pissing him off. "No! I'm just trying to fix this shit, and no one's helping me, and it's driving me fucking crazy! Agh!"

Again, weird looks were shot at the trio, but Harry didn't care. He was so aggravated that he just gave up trying to explain and buried his head in his hands. If Malfoy really was in Azkaban, then it probably was he who was suffering horribly on the other end of what Harry reluctantly conceded was some kind of psychological connection.

Ron and Hermione finally clued in to the fact that Harry was almost as upset by the conversation as they were. Ron became engrossed in the food on his plate, while Hermione tried to tackle the matter. "I don't know why you are putting us through this, Harry, but I'll tell you clearly want to hear: Draco Malfoy is in Azkaban for stabbing his father thirty seven times, which – by the way – we all had the horror of watching. Now, are you gonna tell us what this is all about?"

Harry moved his hands slightly to rub his temples, before sighing and sitting up straight. And here we go once again. "Fine, but you absolutely must not freak out. You can either believe me and help me or you can not believe me; but then you have to leave me alone to figure this out on my own for today. Deal?"

Now Ron too was looking concerned too.

"Harry, you're worrying me," Hermione said pathetically.

"I know, I'm sorry," Harry said soothingly. "I'm just asking you to trust me on this, and let me do what I need to do today."

"I trust you, mate," Ron said sincerely, jumping on the opportunity to add something to the conversation.

Hermione sighed, obviously not happy to be going along with this. "Of course I trust you."

"I certainly hope so, after all we've been through. Now, here's what's going on. I'm actually from a different timeline, where Malfoy has fucked with time, so that it is changing every day. This is the third new timeline I have been to. Dumbledore got me tangled up in this mess and then yesterday, when I tried to get him to help me, he charged me with fixing this."

Harry glanced nervously between his two best friends. Both of their mouths were slightly agape, and Hermione's eyes were wide with. . . what? Harry had no idea what was going through their heads. Did they believe him, or did they think he was completely deluded?

"Tell me this is the worst joke ever," Ron commanded weakly, taking his turn to cradle his head in his hands.

Harry shook his head, then turned his attention to Hermione, who was studying him closely. When she finally spoke, it was with the voice of someone at peace with their answer. "Okay, Harry, I'll give you one day. I'll even help you, if I can."

Harry was flooded with welcome relief, and actually managed a smile. "Actually, you can help."

break

The trio went to class, as was expected – Harry feared that any unwanted attention could jeopardize his ability to complete his mission, while Hermione was decidedly unwilling to miss class for what might prove to be a bit of temporary insanity. Ron was only slightly easier to persuade into skipping lunch, but he was eventually convinced to follow Hermione to the library, where they both researched a time-modification potion that neither had ever heard of.

While they did that, Harry was off to the dungeons to speak to Snape. He tried hard not to think of Malfoy, rotting away in Azkaban for killing his monstrous father. He had managed to get a bit more information out of his friends: mainly, that the murder had taken place the summer before second year, at Flourish and Blotts; and that Azkaban had been the chosen punishment primarily because Draco Malfoy had been determined to be criminally and psychopathically insane and a very serious threat to the public. Harry had pressed for more details, but Hermione just shook her head and told him that she could not do justice to the events.

"It's like asking for a recap of the Holocaust or something," she had said. "You should read the transcripts of the trial. They're just. . . appalling. The worst." Ron had nodded, and they had both looked so morose that Harry had dropped the topic for the time being, he wouldn't make his friends relive an experience that was clearly traumatic for both. He would make sure to read the transcripts as soon as possible, but the first stop on his list was Snape.

Which is how he grudgingly found himself knocking of the door of Snape's private quarters.

"Who is it," demanded the harsh voice, muffled through the hard oak.

"Harry Potter, sir"

There was a long pause, and Harry was beginning to think that Snape wasn't going to answer. Finally, "This better be important, Potter. You better be dying."

Harry narrowed his eyes in annoyance; his normally volatile temper was acting up worse than usual, and he had a sneaking suspicion that it was being aggravated by the tendrils of torturous suffering that were reaching out to him from halfway across the country. "Something like that, sir," he ground out, loud enough to be heard.

"Very well. Come in if you must."

The door opened with surprising ease and silence, as though it was charmed. Snape was hunched over his desk, which was situated to squarely face the doorway. Harry walked in and approached the desk, while a particularly haggard Snape continued scribbling for a long moment before even bothering to look up.

"Well, hurry up," he demanded impatiently, his eyes and quill returning to the paperwork. "I haven't got all day."

It was strategy time, except Harry had pretty much come to accept that there was no strategy for achieving a successful interaction with Snape. Still, it never hurt to start on the higher moral ground, so straightforward and civil it would be. "I'm working to solve this, uh. . . puzzle sir, concerning miscast temporal modification potions. And the _Quareo Tempus_ potion in particular."

Snape looked up sharply at the last part, now openly scowling. "Why have you come to _me_ with these stupid questions?"

"I went to the Headmaster first, sir, but he pointed these questions in your direction." Well, it _was_ the truth, however unverifiable.

Snape actually bought it – he was acting undefinably odd, less spiteful, more fatalistic: a depressing change from his usual "vital" self. "Very well then, Mr. Potter." He gestured towards two wooden stools before his desk. "Have a seat and tell me what it is you want to know. I can recommend several stellar readings."

Harry warily took a seat. A long silence followed, during which Snape regarded him with tired, vaguely disapproving eyes. Finally, he growled. "Well?"

It was all foreign territory to Harry, with no choice but to barrel on. "Uh, okay then, sir. I guess my first question should be, uh, what does the _Quareo Tempus_ potion do exactly?"

Snape's expression was torn between suspicion and a lust to comment that only an idiot would have to ask that question. After a deliberate pause, "How about you explain to my precisely your interest in this subject, and then I _briefly consider_ providing you with a modicum of an answer?"

Harry leaned forward, determined to treat Snape as "professionally" as possible. "Well, sir. Here's the thing. You will never, and I do mean _never_, believe what is going on until you see if for yourself."

Snape's frown deepened ominously, but Harry rushed on, "Use legimency on me. It's the only way you'll understand what's at stake. . . 'cause there's a lot at stake."

For a moment there was a staredown between the hardknock professor and the unstoppable Gryffidor, before Snape proved easily swayed. "Very well, Mr. Potter. Present your case."

Harry sat cross-legged on the dungeon floor, determine to avoid any falls to the floor. Snape stood, then his face and voice were indifferent as he muttered, "Legimens!"

_- - - flash - - - white - - - gray - - - movement - - - swish – swish – splash - - - gray - - -_

Harry shoved the memories in Snape's mental-metaphorical face, hoarding away the memories he wanted to protect, while allowing Snape to witness firsthand all the pertinent events – two involving Dumbledore, two involving Malfoy.

When Snape pulled out of Harry's mind, he looked more shook up than his counterpart. "Draco. . . ," he gasped, not wanting to show vulnerability but not able to deny the swelling need to say the Slytherin's name. Draco, Draco, Draco. . .

Harry dared let himself feel relief; he'd found a weakness that would gain Snape's assistance: the older man _cared_ for Malfoy, or had when the Slytherin had been younger. Like the Slytherin that he secretly was, Harry exploited that weakness. "Malfoy. . . He's not in Azkaban in my time, not in any of the other timelines, you saw some of it yourself. I want to get back, it's in his best interests to get back. He hasn't always made the best decisions, but I can change that-"

"Stop, Potter, for Merlin's sake," Snape hissed wrathfully. He understood perfectly what Potter was doing, and hated him for it. . . but could not deny its effectiveness. He did want desperately to believe in another possibility for Draco. Little Draco; the only child Snape had ever had an acquaintance with, despite decades of teaching raucous teens and pre-teens. Draco; his godson, to whom he had been grossly and irreconcilably negligent in his duties of protecting the fledgling. Draco. . . whose incarceration took the last hope Severus had that he was fighting, spying, and risking his life for more than just a better future for an indistinct and ungracious populous. . .

Snape eventually spoke, when his guilty thoughts had finally come to the only conclusion that would allow him to give belated and much needed assistance to his secretly treasured godson. "It is potion and an incantation – a very complex and theoretical one at that. It is two part because it is actually two different magical incidents. The spell is actually a form of divination that allows the caster to see the lost possibilities that result from concluding important decisions in certain ways. This spell works by creating previously nonexistent universes created by a few variations in the metaphysical equation. It is, of course, much more complicated than that, but this explanation will probably suffice for your simplistic purposes. . . "

What? Was he expecting Harry to rise to the bait? No way! He could barely believe was getting everything he wanted out of the old snake!

". . . As for the potion, it bonds with the magic-chemistry of its target, so the individual's own body triggers the temporal – or rather, the realm – shifts to correspond with the spells direction. Practically, the potion is by far the most difficult component of the _Quareo Tempus_."

There was another pause, in which Snape appeared to be thinking behind his usual frown. "Is that's what went wrong," Harry asked. "Did Malfoy brew the potion incorrectly?"

Snape turned his attention from his thoughts back to the Gryffindor in front of him. "No, I don't think so," he said slowly, strategically. "You interrupted him and triggered the potion before he could add in a control mechanism that would stop the entire process once a desire timeline had been achieved."

By this time Harry was frowning too; he thought he was following everything Snape was saying, but it was hard to tell. "What control mechanism?"

Snape shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. This is the primary reason why the _Quareo Tempus_ has fallen into relative obscurity – because no one has ever successfully used it to create a different present and future for themselves. It is more of a myth than an actually possibility. Instruction for parts of the necessary magic exist, but no one has been able to invent the control mechanism needed to allow the desired effects."

Now Harry was a little horrified. "So you're saying that I'm stuck, right! That Malfoy messed up and did some time changing spell that can't be stopped!"

He wanted to rant on, but Snape was shaking his head, again sporting an expression that told Harry just how much of an idiot thought him to be. "No, Draco is smarter than that, he knew that the_ Quareo Tempus_ is incomplete. He . . . researched the _Quareo Tempus_ when he was a child, I just chalked it up at the time to curiosity, but he had access to the my potions library, as well as the extensive Malfoy family library – both excellent resources if one was going to devise a way to make the _Quareo Tempus_ work."

"You're saying that Malfoy _invented_ the final magical piece," Harry asked skeptically. Yeah, Malfoy was top of the class, second only to Hermione and this one Ravenclaw, but surely he wasn't _that_ good.

Snape glared at him with distaste. "I wouldn't underestimate him, Mr. Potter. It would be counterproductive given the situation you are currently in. Never doubt that Draco Malfoy can do _anything_ he puts his mind to, whatever the cost."

end chapter

Please review! Sorry, no Malfoy action this chapter, but good things come to those who wait. More excitement to come!


	7. Day Three, Part Two: Trial and Error

Disclaimer: All characters, as well as the HP universe, are the legal property of JK Rowling Filthy Rich Enterprises.

To my Reviewers: Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Chapter 7: Day Three, Part II: Trial and Error

Harry left Snape's office, pleased and amazed that he had gotten as much info as he had (the slimeball was usually tightlipped unless it was to release a torrent of verbal abuse); still, Harry's mood was pretty much the same as it had been that morning – fatigue left him with little patience or enthusiasm, and the constant aching in the back of his mind was wearing him down on all fronts.

Herbology was looming near, so Harry decided to pick up some fingerfood lunch for himself and his library-inhabiting friends. The din in the Great Hall almost made him regret his decision, but he managed to sidestep the prying questions that Seamus, Dean, and especially Ginny stabbed at him. He ran into Ron and Hermione on their way out of the library.

"What's that," Ron asked without even a hello, blatantly eyeballing the plate of food in Harry's hand.

Harry smirked. "Nuh-unh. First tell what's _that_," he said pointing to the books that Ron and Hermione were carrying – Ron was only carrying one huge one, but Hermione had so many that one could only see the top half of her head over the stack.

"Take a few of these things, and I'll tell you," Hermione responded, the strain of the heavy books obvious in her voice. Harry shoved the plate into Ron's suddenly free hand and promptly took about half of Hermione's burden, then, following Hermione's lead, they all began walking. Uh, was the plan to take all these books to class with them?

Ron pulled off some impressive manual acrobatics in order hold the big tome, his satchel, and the plate, while also walking, picking at the food and shoving it into his mouth. Hermione, on the other hand, barely seemed to notice that food was involved at all as she enthusiastically launched into what she had found in the library. "It was just bits and pieces, hints of information in all these books that I've got, mostly on the theoretical aspects of the _Quaero Tempus_. I can only imagine what we could find if we could get into the Restricted Section, but what I was able to find was fascinating! Did you know that the _Quareo Tempus_ is both a potion and a spell? And more than that, the potion and the spell both have to be calibrated to the individual – I was able to find quite a lot on this spell, the _Animadverto Alius Universum_ if I remember correctly. It's used frequently in therapy, and there's all this intriguingly arithmancy that has to go into it! You have to select which past decisions you would like to alter, then calculate their arthimatic values, which then translate into modified incantations that'll create alternate realities! And the potion! Did you know it is the only time-altering potion known that does not use Ent Tree's blood? Who would have thought? But that's because it does not actually change time, but binds the user to previously nonexistent parallel universes. But this is all hypothetical, of course; all the books I found claim that it is not actually possible to enact _Quaero Tempus_. Though with everything I've seen since first year, I doubt that anything is actually impossible. . . "

Hermione continued her rant-like lecture all the way to class, with Ron quickly abandoning any pretense of paying attention, while Harry tried valiantly to follow everything she said. It was a lot to take in at once, especially at the speed and excitement at which Hermione was delivering it (it was nice to see that some people never change). The background knowledge provided by Snape certainly helped, and Harry was pleased to find that he understood enough of the situation to notice one key clue:

According to Hermione, the known components of the _Quaero Tempus_ did not use Ent Tree's blood, but there was good reason to believe that Malfoy did use Ent Tree's blood in his attempt. This fact could certainly aid in narrowing the search for the missing component.

The trio arrived at Advanced Charms a couple of minutes late, and Professor Flitwick looked at them as if they had each grown second heads. "I assume you three have a good excuse for being late?"

Hermione flushed – she had been so caught up in what she had learned that she had actually failed to realize that they were late. Harry grasped for something to placate the short, annoyed professor, but Ron (expert excuse-maker) beat him to it. "We were in the library, sir, and it took longer than expected to check out all these books. Sorry, sir."

Hermione and Harry nodded quickly in agreement, then chorused their own apologies. "Very well, ten points from Gryffindor. Take your seats so we can continue."

They were forced to take the only seats left, each several desks the away from the other. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry vaguely saw Hermoine place her stack of books by her desk before sitting down. Only then did he look down at the book Ron had thrust into his hands – _Testimonial Transcripts from Ministry Trials in London Courts, Years 1994-2004_. He stared at it for a long moment before forcing himself to retrieve his quill and parchment; then, as inconspicuously as was possible with such a large tomb, he moved the book to the floor. He was feeling an uncomfortable intrigue in the fate of this timeline's Malfoy, but there was no way such large pages could be opened without drawing attention.

! BREAK !

Harry ditched Hermione and Ron (indeed, he ditched the entire next class), and returned to the tower – he didn't want to spend precious time in class when he was on a mission; besides, as there could be no consequence beyond that day, a detention that night was all he was risking.

The Fat Lady had been nosy, but Harry managed to rush the exchange, then he was quickly sitting cross legged with the tome in front of him. This was it, this was what happened to Malfoy.

Harry opened the cover to refreshing youthful pages (so many texts in the Hogwarts library were ancient), then scanned through the table of contents searching chronologically and alphabetically for –

THE PEOPLE VS. DRACO MALFOY Charge: One count of first degree murder   
Plea: Not guilty, by reason of extreme provocation. 

_Court Services Officer Fitz William: All rise. The honorable judges of the London High Court are gathered here today to preside over the matter of the People versus Draco Malfoy, at this time of 10:05, on August 18th, 2001. . . You may be seated. _

_Chief Judge Riley Kyotee: Well, let's get starting, then. According to this report, the defendant was administered Veritaserum at 9:55, so go ahead and bring him out._

_**Enter Defendant Draco Malfoy.**_

_R. Kyotee: Mr. Malfoy, you will reply only as you have been asked. Prosecution, you may begin. _

_Prosecuting Barrister Brion Orion: Good morning, honorable judges of the High Court, spectators. Now, Mr. Malfoy, please state your full name for the court._

_D. Malfoy: Draco Lukaas Malfoy._

_B. Orion: What is the nature of your relationship with the victim, Lucius Malfoy?_

_D. Malfoy: He was my father. _

_B. Orion: And are you, in fact, responsible for his untimely demise?_

_D. Malfoy: Yes._

_B. Orion: How are you responsible, Mr. Malfoy?_

_D. Malfoy: I killed him. _

_B. Orion: Yes you did, Mr. Malfoy. And most gruesomely too, if I might add. Would you explain to the court how you managed your father's murder?_

_D. Malfoy: I stabbed him. Repeatedly. _

_B. Orion: Thirty-seven times, to be exact. Is that correct?_

_D. Malfoy: I don't know._

_B Orion: What weapon did you employ?_

_D. Malfoy: A ceremonial dagger. _

_B. Orion: And what, pray tell, is the history behind this dagger?_

_D. Malfoy: It is a family heirloom, passed on to the oldest son when he is deemed old enough to kill. It has been traditionally used in the executions of persons of familial significance. The blood of its victims is said to make it stronger. _

Harry had to stop reading, everything was too disoriented. The transcripts were not providing information detailed enough for Harry to be able to imagine who this Draco Malfoy was. The words were so callus, but was that a result of the Veritaserum? Or was that a consequence of the transcription process? Or was this Malfoy unfeeling and dangerously sociopathic, as had been the courts final ruling?

Harry forced himself to continue reading, this time at a faster pace.

_B. Orion: So, you just happened to be carrying around a ceremonial dagger on the day you murdered your father. Tell us, Mr. Malfoy, was this crime premeditated? . . . I'm sorry, what was that? You will have to verbalize your response._

_D. Malfoy: I had thought about it before, but I was too afraid to act. _

_B. Orion: Why would you have turned such homicidal thoughts towards your father?_

_D. Malfoy: Because I hate him, I hate him so much I would kill him a thousand times if I could. Send me to Azkaban, give me the Kiss, see if I care. As long as daddy's dead, I can die happy. _

_B. Orion: As of yet, no punishment has been decided upon, Mr. Malfoy. That is for the court to decide. _

A dawning feeling of unease forced Harry to skim ahead. He didn't want to dwell on Brion Orion's patronizingly and provocatively phrased questions, nor on Malfoy's simultaneously dead and hateful responses. Both question and response irked Harry, and if he dared search within himself, he would realize why: he was becoming protective of this evolving concept he had of Malfoy that spanned several timelines. Somehow, feeling Malfoy's pain across hundreds of kilometers was enough to know that the ferret wasn't a sociopathic monster – monsters were not capable of a pain so poignant, so acute, so absolute.

Harry's slowed his scanning when he came to the end of the prosecution's questioning.

B. Orion: Your honors, the prosecution rests. 

_R. Kyotee: Thank you, Barrister. The defense may question now. _

_Defending Barrister Kira Wallflower: Your honors, Mr. Malfoy. . . Draco. Would you tell the court what kind of man you think Lucius Malfoy was?_

_D. Malfoy: He was a monster. The fucking system acquitted him of being a Death Eater, probably because he bought everyone off, but he really was one. He lamented the Dark Lord's defeat and he continued to use dark arts. He was personally responsible for the death of fifteen different people, and not all of them muggles! Not to mention all the ones that I don't even know about. He was. . . inhuman. A brutal, ruthless, sadistic monster. I'm glad I killed him, I will never regret it._

_K. Wallflower: What about as a father, Draco? What kind of father was Lucius Malfoy?_

_D. Malfoy: He was no different as a father than as a man._

_K. Wallflower: Was he, uh, "brutal, ruthless, and sadistic" towards you?. . . I'm sorry, Draco, the court can't hear you. _

_D. Malfoy: I said, yes._

_K. Wallflower: Would you elaborate? _

_D. Malfoy: He. . . tortured me. _

_K. Wallflower: That's not enough, Draco. What did he do to you specifically?_

_D. Malfoy: He. . . he kicked me. When I was a lot smaller, the size of something that would get under the feet, he would. . . kick me out of the way. He broke a couple ribs a few times, my jaw once. . . He ignored me most of the time, except when I was in the way. Or when he thought I was misbehaving, then he really let me have it._

_K. Wallflower: And as you got older?_

_D. Malfoy: He didn't take an interest in me until I was old enough to start practicing magic, which was around five, I guess. Then he cast all sorts of horrible things on me in the name of education. But it wasn't education, it was just his natural desire to watch others in pain. _

_K. Wallflower: Did he ever cast any Unforgivables?_

_D. Malfoy: . . . All the time. _

_K. Wallflower: How else-_

_D. Malfoy: Enough! Don't ask anymore about what he did to me! I think it's been shown that he hurt me. _

_K. Wallflower: I'm sorry, Draco, but I want the judges to know exactly what kind of man your father was, and just how much you suffered in his custody. . . So, how else did he mistreat you?. . ._

_R. Kyotee: Stop fighting the Veritaserum and answer the question, Mr. Malfoy._

_D. Malfoy: . . . No, I. . . He called my all sorts of unspeakable names. Made me do things, torture and kill animals. . . and he. . . he. . . abused. . . me._

_K. Wallflower: It has already been established that he physically and magically abused you, Draco. Did he sexually molest you?. . . Please, a verbal response._

_D. Malfoy: . . . Yes. . . _

_K. Wallflower: Did he rape you, Draco?_

_D. Malfoy: YES! Bloody fucking yes, you nasty bitch! He raped me, for years! Sometimes Mum was there too! And you know whose fault it is? Yours all! How could you let such a monster become a father! Everyone knew he was a Death Eater! The mediwitches knew what he was doing to-_

_R. Kyotee: Order! Silence! You will answer only the questions you have been asked, Mr. Malfoy, or you will be held in contempt. _

Harry pushed the tome away harshly, so that it toppled loudly to the floor. His mind didn't know how to react, but his face scrunched up on its own and his stomach felt decidedly nauseous. Oh god, oh god, oh god. Had this stuff happened. . . in the other timelines? Oh, he would never forgive himself! He had been so hateful to one so pitable! It was like hating a rabid dog, how could you blame the dog! How could Draco have been sentenced to Azkaban when he had already suffered so much?

Oh god. Harry's head fell into hands and a strangled sob was torn from his throat. He buried his face into the bed, and cover his head with his pillow. Images from the day before flashed on the backs of his eyelids – women, men; all colors; pale skin on pale skin, on blood. . . Through his tears the images melted to one of a ghostly, scraggily teen, slowly rocking back and forth where he was huddled in the corner of a cold, dark cell. His clothes were in tatters, and his skin and hair were grimy, but he was still recognizable as Draco Malfoy. He was humming quietly, tunelessly, just enough to focus on in an attempt to block out the sobs and moans and screams that could be heard throughout the prison. . .

Harry woke to the sound of a loud tapping. His eyes felt scratchy and his sinuses stuffy, but his emotions were blessedly numb. There was an ordinary barn owl at the window, rapping on the glass. Harry opened it, but the bird didn't come in, it just proffered its leg. Harry untied the thin scroll there, then didn't even have time to get the courier a treat before the owl loudly took off.

Harry gazed awkwardly at the parchment in his hands, and though it bore his name, he felt an odd lack of interest. His sense of curiosity had been burned just a few too many times of late, and Harry just. . . didn't want to know. He stuffed the letter in his pocket, then eyeballed the tome where is still lay on the floor. Did he dare? He no longer felt curiosity, but he felt a sense of. . . duty. To Malfoy, to his mission, to himself: it was hard to say.

His eyes flicked to the wall clock – the last class would be out soon, so he would have to read fast. He grabbed the book and sat cross legged on his bed, then, steeling his will and emotions, he opened up to where he had left off. The judge had adjourned the court after Malfoy's rant and the transcripts started up the next day, but most of the big bombs had already been dropped and there were few surprises. The defense's last questions, however, definitely caught Harry's attention.

_K. Wallflower: Draco, would you tell us what precipitated your attack outside Flourish and Blotts?_

_D. Malfoy: My father was going to slip an evil diary into, I don't know, Potter's bag I guess. Or maybe Granger, or one of the Weasleys. I don't know all the details, I don't even know what the diary was trying to accomplish. Father only said something about it possessing someone and turning them into the Dark Lord. Or something like that. I wasn't thinking, I just looked into the bookshop and saw the faces of the people who were going to be his victims, and I knew that hurting others wasn't a line I could let him cross. Not this time. If the Ministry wouldn't take care of him, then he was my responsibility. So I took care of him, and I stopped him forever. _

_K. Wallflower: If what you say is true, as it would seem to be, you had no intention of killing your father that day, is that right?_

_D. Malfoy: Yes, that's right._

_K. Wallflower: Then why did you have a ceremonial killing dagger on you?_

_D. Malfoy: . . . Just in case._

_K. Wallflower: Just in case what?_

_D. Malfoy: Just in case I need to defend myself. . . or kill myself. _

_K. Wallflower: Thank you, Draco, that's all. Your honors, the defense rests._

_R. Kyotee: Thank you, Barrister. Prosecution, do you want to rebut? _

_B. Orion: Yes, your honor. _

_R. Kyotee: You may begin. _

_B. Orion: Mr. Malfoy, an evil diary? Even if such an object existed, why was no such object found at the scene of the crime?_

_D. Malfoy: It was in an invisible bag that my father was carrying. _

_B. Orion: But no such bag was found. Can you explain that?_

_D. Malfoy: Well, everything got dropped when I attacked. Maybe someone else stumbled upon it and took it._

_B. Orion: Is that really likely, Mr. Malfoy?_

_D. Malfoy: I think it's perfectly possible. Either that or maybe the Ministry's incompetence simply overlooked it. Or maybe they did find, and purposely failed to report it-_

_R. Kyotee: Stop it, Mr. Malfoy. We have heard enough of your wild accusations against the Ministry._

_D. Malfoy: On the contrary, I don't think you've heard enough-_

_R. Kyotee: You will cease this instant, or this court will hold you in contempt again. . . You may proceed. _

_B. Orion: One more question on this topic, if you will. You claimed to attack your father to save Harry Potter and his friends. But what do Harry Potter and his friends think of you?_

_D. Malfoy: . . . They hate me. _

_B. Orion: . . . Tell us, Mr. Malfoy – and this is probably the most important question to be asked at this trial – if you were found not guilty, and you were not imprisoned, would you be a threat to others?_

_D. Malfoy: Yes, definitely._

_B. Orion: Why, Mr. Malfoy?_

_D. Malfoy: Because I hate you all. Because the system is a fucking joke. My father gets off free because he has enough dirt to blackmail the whole world. He gets to abuse children and kill muggles because no one really cares what he does, as long as the bribe money keeps flowing. I abhor this disgusting, revolting, vile system! It is weak and shady and corrupt, and I will have nothing to do with it! If my father was found innocent, then I want to be found guilty! Because if my father is what this system values, then I want to be condemned! Give me Azkaban! And if you don't, I will spend the rest of my life hunting down those responsible! -_

_R. Kyotee: That is enough, Mr. Malfoy!_

_D. Malfoy: Everyone who knew better! Beware, Fudge you fucker! You are first on my list! And the judges! And-_

_Court Security Geraldo Ambrit: Silencio!_

_R. Kyotee: . . .The court has heard enough, barristers. The prosecution has previously submitted a psych evaluation concluding that Mr. Malfoy is seriously and dangerously disturbed, and everything we have seen here leads me to concur. The three judges are in agreement. Draco Malfoy is hereby found guilty on the count of first degree murder, and sentenced to Azkaban for the rest of his natural life._

Harry closed the tome carefully. And that there was the answer to how Draco Malfoy had ended up in prison – trying to save _him_ and his friends. Did this mean that the Chamber of Secrets was never opened in this time line? That Ginny never had to suffer through Voldemort's possession? He tried to remember how Ginny had seemed during breakfast, even though he hadn't been paying attention. Now that he thought about it, she had seemed less shy, more bubbly – or was that just him projecting what he wanted to see?

He heard the loud thumbing of teenage boys coming up the stairs, and he quickly hid the book under his bed. He hoped that he didn't look like he had been crying.

Dean was the first through the door. "Oooh, Harry, you gonna get it! Skipping two classes!"

Seamus was in the room a second later, still laughing over something Seamus had said seconds before. They both sobered slightly, seeing that a decidedly off-looking Harry. "You okay, mate," Dean asked.

Harry nodded, trying to give himself an animation that he didn't feel. He felt. . . wasted. "Yeah, I was just feeling a little sick before, but I'm feeling better now. How were classes?"

Seamus plopped down on his bed, facing Harry, while Dean bent down to dig through his trunk. "Ad Trans was as you can imagine," the Irishman burred. "Potions was a worse nightmare than usual. Without you to focus his nastiness, it was just Hermione and me there to receive the lashing. I don't find it too hard to just ignore him, but Hermione looked like she was going to bust a hernia by the end of class."

Harry offered a weak smile. "Where's Ron?"

"Common Room," Dean answered absently. "But we were trying to round up some people for a game of football. Ron's convinced that being goalie will help his Quidditch game."

Football? Since when did they play football? Harry's interest was peeked, but he felt too exhausted to commit to something like that. Besides, he should probably give a look through some of those books Hermione had checked out of the library.

! BREAK !

An hour later, Ron was outside playing football, while the other members of the Golden Trio were in the library – Hermione was doing some Runes homework, while Harry was trying desperately (but somewhat futilely) to pay attention to the arcane and overly detailed book in front of him. Ginny and couple other fifth year Gryffindors were sitting at the other end of the table, and Harry couldn't help but notice that Ginny did seem a lot more talkative and chipper than he remembered her. What else had changed because Tom Riddle's diary had never been delivered? Had the Chamber of Secrets never been opened? How many lives had been spared because Lucius had died? Perhaps more importantly, if he was in an alternate timeline that happened to be another dimension, what was going on in _his _dimension!

Finding himself hopelessly distracted from his "research", Harry began jotting down some questions about this timeline that he wanted to ask Hermione or Ron. He wasn't sure why he cared, it's not like it mattered. For better or worse, he had to return himself, and Malfoy (Malfoy was going through this too, right? despite not remembering?), to the original timeline. Wasn't he just torturing himself with what-ifs?

Impulsively, Harry wadded up the parchment and threw it in the bin as the Gryffindor group headed towards the Great Hall for dinner. After a scant lunch he was famished, and he and Ron were both too busy shoveling food into their mouths to converse much.

"Geez, you guys. What are you trying to do, see who can choke to death first," Hermione asked disapprovingly.

Ron and Harry looked up at her, then at each other; shrugged, then launched back into their feeding frenzy. Food was so much more scrumptious when one was famished.

Back in the common room, food coma began to sink in, and Ron and Harry found themselves slumped heavily into maroon chairs (Hermione went to her dorm to fetch her study materials). Harry in particular felt as if he could fall asleep right there, despite whatever it was that was awkwardly stabbing into his hip. Reluctantly, he shifted to retrieve it from his pocket – it was the letter he had received earlier.

Torn between a superficial numbness and a deep-seated apprehension, Harry unrolled the parchment, started reading, and promptly began hyperventilating.

_Dear Harry,_

_How's it to be back at Hogwarts? I hope you enjoy your sixth year, it was certainly my best year in school. I dated my first sweetheart that year (as did you father, wink nudge). It was great, before I was dumped. Ah, young love. Anyway enough of that. _

_Everything is preceding as well as can be expected. Lots of boring reconnaissance, little to report. The upside to this is that the movement doesn't seem to be as big as feared; the down side being that most of the key players also happen to be key figures at our foundational institutions. Nothing we haven't always suspected I suppose. _

_How are Ron and Hermione? Both reluctantly single? Have you started remedial potions with the slimeball yet? The Old Man still giving you trouble? _

_Right back soon. Love, _

_Snuffles_

"Harry, are you okay," Ron questioned, concern obvious in his expression and tone.

Harry was still breathing heavily, and his eyes were fixed on the parchment in front of him, but he did manage to shake his head stiffly. Ron hoisted himself off his chair and came around beside Harry to glance at the letter in his hands.

"What's wrong," he asked. "It's a letter from your godfather."

Harry ripped his burning eyes from the words and turned his head to look at Ron. The tension in his fingers crumbled the paper without any conscious awareness. "There wasn't a fight with Voldemort at the Ministry last year," Harry croaked.

Ron's eyebrows narrowed further as his worry increased. "No, there was. L-," he sighed heavily, clearly stressed by the question. "Luna was killed."

Harry hadn't even noticed her absence.

The surprises of the last few days were finally too much, and the strong emotions evoked too draining. He couldn't deal with it anymore without a serious breakdown. Still, he was tired enough to crash, even though it was only half past eight, and maybe sleep would help calm and clarify his feelings.

He stood up feebly. "I'm gonna go to bed. Tell Hermione good-night."

"Wait," Ron started, placing a freckled hand on his friend's forearm. "I want to help you, no matter what is going on."

Harry nodded and felt a soothing wave of affection – it was a relief to feel something that wasn't unbearably distressing. He was even able to offer up a weak smile: at least Ron was constant. "I know, Ron, and I really appreciate it. I'm sorry for putting you and Hermione through all this today. It's been a lot for me too and I need some sleep before I collapse. I promise, everything will be back to normal tomorrow. . . Okay?"

Reluctantly, but somewhat reassured, Ron nodded and let Harry go.

! END CHAPTER !

Ugh, sorry it took so long to get this baby out, blame a week long Star Wars fest at my house! Anyway, it's quite a bit longer than usual, so I hope everyone is happy. I'm really excited to start the next chapter – things are going to start getting a lot weirder. I just ask you to hang on, a promise an ultimately satisfying story arch and conclusion.


	8. Day Four, Part One: VaVa Boom!

Disclaimer: HP and the HP Universe are the property of JKR.

Question for Readers: Oh, where is the love? Why so few reviews? As a sociology graduate, I have long noted the bizarreness of review distribution. has a lot of trash on it (bad writing, unoriginal plots, poor character development, outlandish AU and OOC, etc.) that receives loads of reviews; meanwhile, some of the better pieces receive almost nothing. Does anybody have any idea why this might be? Do young readers like work that could have been written by young teens? Do people just not want to deal with complex reading? What is going on here?

Chapter 8: Day Four, Part I: Va-Va Boom!

"_Hey. . . Potter," came the voice, confident but quiet, piercing the empty hallway. _

_Harry turned cautiously towards the source of the recognizable inflection. His eyes scanned Malfoy's height – the other boy was one of the shortest first years, but it did nothing to shrink the stature of his presence, or to detract from his superficial attractiveness. _

"_Malfoy," Harry responded warily. After their unfavorable encounter on the platform, Harry wasn't sure what to expect. The Slytherin's face was mostly blank, with only the slightest trace of distain, but it was enough to put H on the defensive. "What do you want?"_

_Malfoy's eyebrow arched slightly at H's tone. "Look, Potter, I don't care if you like me or not. Truth be told, no one likes me. But it would serve my purposes to have a working relationship with you. And it would be in your best interests to have such a relationship with me."_

_Who talks like that in first year! There was just something about this boy that pricked up all the hair on his arm. "Oh, yeah? Why is that?"_

_Malfoy's lips grew into a malicious, toothy grin. "Because I am **very** close to the people who want you dead. This being the case, it would behoove you to be on my good side in any event. However, this is your lucky day, and I happen to want these people dead as much as you do. Hence, it would be in our best interests to work together."_

_What on Earth was he talking about? Nobody wanted him dead, right? This Voldemort character was long gone, and everyone thought he was a hero. Right? . . . Then again, there appeared to be a lot going on in the wizarding world that he was in the dark about. "I don't want anyone dead," Harry replied a little uncertainly._

_An elegant eyebrow arched up in skepticism, before settling into an expression of ominous amusement. "You will, Potter. And when you do, I suggest you come find me."_

_Malfoy turned away and was off before Harry could even muster a response, leaving the Gryffindor stunned by the course of events. He tried to shrug it off and made his way towards the library._

_Once in the library, he felt much more at home, as if he had been at Hogwarts for years. Indeed, he was inexplicably taller and buffer, as big as the fitter fifth years – and yet, everything seemed completely normal. _

_There was Hermione, concentrating single-mindedly upon the text in front of her. Harry's instincts pushed him towards her, before suddenly noticing a very particular shoulder bag. It was made of dark green dragon suede, with illegible silver lettering: Malfoy._

_But there was something he needed to talk to Malfoy about, something which directed him to traipse through the stacks until spotting the falsely nonchalant figure of Draco Malfoy. Somehow, over the years, Harry had gotten to know his classmate very well – at least superficially. It was extremely difficult to determine what the blond was actually thinking or feeling, but it had become rather easy to decipher what he **wanted** the word to believe he was thinking and feeling; and that itself was a greater understanding of Malfoy than most ever achieved. _

"_Malfoy."_

_Malfoy turned languidly towards his sometimes-nemesis sometimes-ally, as though he expected the Gryffindor to be there. "Potter, what a pleasure."_

_Harry's eyes instinctively glanced at the tome in Malfoy's hands – the veiled sexual tension was nothing compared to the aura of untrustworthiness that emanated from the aristocrat like a radioactive particle (this was a bloke that hated everyone as much as they could possibly hate him). The text was partially covered by his arm, but what he could make out read, "Muggle N- . . . -nology."_

"_What's that," Harry asked, nodding toward the large and conspicuously current book in Malfoy's arms. _

_Malfoy smirked maliciously: though he had matured, grown taller and more handsome over five years, his single-minded vindictiveness had barely changed at all. "This is how I'm going to destroy our enemies."_

_By this time Harry had become the skeptic – this was not the first time Malfoy had claimed to have a solution to the "Voldemort problem". "Right, whatever you say," he commented, rolling his eyes._

_Malfoy was predictably pissed, but there was also a hint of. . . what? Hurt? "It doesn't matter if you believe me, Potter. The end is near. And if you're smart, you'll make yourself part of it enough to be able to take credit for Voldemort's defeat. If not. . . fuck you and everyone else, I'm doing this for myself anyway."_

_This sort of behavior was relatively normal for Malfoy, but his words were still disconcerting. "What are you going on about," Harry demanded._

_Malfoy leaned forwards unexpectedly, so that his face was suddenly inches from Harry's; his pupils were large and piercing, but his breath betrayed a recent consumption of Vizard Vodka (aka Wizard's Watah). "There are some practical concerns, but I'll have this figured out by the time school starts next fall."_

_Harry felt a little dizzy by Malfoy's heady proximity, but he reflexively proffered the same response he always gave to Malfoy's outlandish plans, "You're all talk and no action, Malfoy. You said the same shite last year, and the year before that. I'll believe it when I see it."_

_But this time, instead of his usual indignation and offense, Malfoy smirked proudly and vindictively. "Oh, you will, Potter," he commented off-handedly. "Admittedly, you didn't support my earlier plans, which, unfortunately, couldn't succeed without your participation. But I finally took the hint. You don't want anything to do with me, I get it. This time, I'm gonna kill them all in one foul swipe, and you won't need to do hardly anything. I didn't want it to come to this, but I've finally found a solution that didn't need the bloody Boy-Who-Lived to sacrifice **anything**. This time, if I'm lucky, I'll be known as the Boy-Who-Died. If not, whatever. People are prejudiced against me 'cause of my father, but God'll still know that it was me."_

_By the end of spiel, Malfoy's calm manner had melted into one of whispered distress, and the Slytherin was left glaring at Harry. Harry's mind grasped for a response, but he was too slow, and Malfoy actually growled like an animal. "Grgh! I just- . . . Damn you! You're supposed to be the hero! I'm supposed to be the one who just sits around and lets everyone rot! I don't want to die! Why are you forcing us to trade places!"_

"_I'm not! I've got everything under control! So don't you go messing everything up, you prat," Harry hissed angrily, completely unconvincingly. _

_Just then a third year Hufflepuff appeared in their isle, and Malfoy eyeballed her before turning his attention back to Harry. Malfoy gritted his teeth for a moment. "Liar," he mouthed, before-_

_Beepbeep. Beepbeep. Beepbeep. BEEEP!_

Consciousness snapped into focus almost immediately, and Harry instantly sat up in bed. Merlin, the alarm was loud this morning.

"I hate you, Seamus," Ron sleepily mumbled. "I really truly detest you."

"It's not me," Seamus grunted, barely coherently.

Only then did Harry realize that it was _his_, rarely used alarm that was going off. He quickly leaned over and palmed it off. He paused a moment to see if any of his roommates were planning on getting up – none of them were.

Well, he must have set his alarm for a reason, so Harry sprung out of bed and walked briskly to the bathroom. Gone was depression and frustration of the day before, and its place was a sense of urgency, of edginess, as though the time was upon him. He didn't know what it was time for, but he trusted his instincts (or was it the connection?) well enough to take heed.

He showered quickly, his mind replaying the dream. . . though he recalled it to a suspicious degree of detail. It was also uncharacteristically ordinary compared to Harry's usually wacky (when not terrifying) dreams. Indeed, it felt almost like a memory, though it was certainly no memory Harry had ever remembered.

He went to breakfast early with Hermione, who was coincidently happened to be waiting for him at the stairs of the boys' dormitory. It was an experience suspiciously vacant of its usual lecturing content (at this early hour the Great Hall was also particularly vacant of students), and Harry played it cool, hoping that Hermione would reveal the clues necessary to determine what was going on. Sure enough, it wasn't very long before she leaned over and whispered agitatedly, "I read a bunch more material after you went to bed last night, and I practiced a bunch more, though without a living trial I still think it's pretty risky. But he's confident in my abilities, so if he's willing to be the guinea pig, I can probably execute it."

Harry felt his stomach plummet sickeningly, inexplicably. "Sounds good," he said, trying to be as vague as possible; nodding, he didn't even look up from his porridge. He felt strange, almost as if the knowledge of what was happening was just of the tip of his mind. As if the each consecutive reality was progressively closer to revealing the truth; as if each reality was closer to fusing his memories with the memories of that reality.

Harry swallowed, feeling a sudden urge to vomit. The sense of urgency that he had been feeling since he had woken up abruptly meant so much more – time was running out. If he didn't right the timeline soon, he would soon not even care that there was a difference between what he knew to be fact and what had become fact.

Hermione looked at her watch. "Well, it's seven-fifty. Should we go?"

Harry found it odd that they weren't waiting for Ron, but he continued to follow Hermione's lead. He had a gut intuition that suspected exactly where she wanted them to go – a meeting with Malfoy. A rendezvous with anyone else would have thrown him for a loop, but somehow he just knew. . . Everything about the last few days had been about Malfoy.

And sure enough, there he found himself, waiting with Hermione in the empty Herbology greenhouse, when Malfoy, sporting his typical robes and shoulder bag, strolled arrogantly towards them. There were dark crescents under his eyes, and his skin seemed more pasty than its usual ivory. He stopped a couple feet before them and they glared antagonistically at each other, making it difficult for Harry to take his queues from either Malfoy and Hermione.

Malfoy was the first to break the silence, looking quite sure of himself, despite sounding as if throat was as fatigued as his eyes and skin. "Well? Is this going to happen or not?"

Hermione glanced at Harry for an answer, and Harry found himself nodding instinctively without knowing what he was getting into. Hermione took it from there – she had always been good at poise and politics. "Yes. Let's get on with it."

Malfoy nodded, then turned his attention to his bag, carefully retrieving a package enveloped in silky material. Loaded seconds passed as he portentously unwrapped the prize. . . to reveal what looked like 20 cm3 box, which he placed on the empty table between himself and the Gryffindors. Despite the aura of danger that emanated from the cube, Harry bit his lip to prevent himself from demanding to know what this device was. He could tell that his two companions knew exactly what it was, and that they were operating under the temporally logical assumption that he did too. A moment's study of the gadget told him everything he needed to know.

The device was clearly muggle: one side was a maze of computer wiring, while a second side was made of transparent material that revealed two cylinders within – one sporting an unidentifiable powder and the other an equally unrecognizable liquid. The first decade of Harry's life, spent watching much muggle TV, ominously posited a possible answer to the question of what exactly the device was: it was a bomb.

A rush of adrenaline and relief and self-depreciation swamped Harry. Merlin, it was a solution he had been too thick to think of in his own timeline – to destroy Voldemort through the very muggle technology that he so abhorred and belittled. Admittedly, he was bewildered as to how Malfoy had managed to get hold of such a device, but its existence far outweighed any concerns he had as to its origins.

Harry stood there shocked, an unwitting (and somewhat horrified) observer, as Malfoy placed the contraption upon a table, before reaching back into his bag for a tiny remote control. Though he was transfixed and frozen, a sudden hypersensitivity brought on by terror allowed Harry to notice Hermione shiver in the periphery of his vision. "Merlin, Malfoy, I know you said that it's functional, but, shit, I'm suddenly not so sure about this. What if it isn't? What if we blow up the whole school?"

Hermione must have been as afraid as Harry to curse like that, but Malfoy didn't even look at her. Instead he raised bloodshot eyes to sneer challengingly at Harry. "What about you, Potter? You punking out too? Or is the thought of someone else doing the dirty deed just too much for you?"

Harry had to force himself not to choke in panic. What the hell was the right answer in such a precarious state of circumstance? Uncertainty wracked his body with the speed of adrenaline, before old habits leapt at the opportunity to respond to the one aspect of the entire situation that felt familiar – Malfoy's gibe. "Fuck you, Malfoy. I've never punked out of anything in my life, which I'm sure is more than can be said of you."

Harry heard Hermione's gasp of fear, but Malfoy's lips just stretched into a familiar vindictive smile, and that was all the forcefully jabbed his thumb down on the control in his palm.

Hermione involuntarily released a little shriek, while Harry couldn't help but jerk at Malfoy's movement. Was it the healthy fear of explosives that only pertained to those raised by muggles, or was Malfoy truly unafraid of the contraption before him?

Still, nothing much happened, except that there was the barely noticeable hum of electronic technology. Malfoy bent down to inspect the bomb, his face mere centimeters from wired surface. Then he stood and smugly leered at the two Gryffindors. "It's all set. Like I told you, I've got everything under control." His attention shifted slightly so that he could eyeball Hermione. "Now do you think You can carry through with the one percent of this plan that actually requires something from _you?"_

Harry turned to look at Hermione too, wondering again just what the Hell they had gotten themselves involved in this time. Hermione was breathing unevenly and her skin was slightly off-color. After a long pause in which her eyes never left the cube, she bit her lip and brandished her wand. She pointed it at the muggle technology, which Malfoy now held squarely in the middle of his torso.

Hermione's hand was steady despite everything, but still she lowered her wand ever so slightly. "Are you sure you want to do this," she asked, her voice wavering. "I mean, if I mess this up, I could kill you."

Malfoy's artificially calm façade cracked, and his expression suddenly revealed the slightest hint of fear and agitation, however poorly masked by a condescending sneer. "I'm going to die either way you fucking Mudblood! What are you scared of! The incrimination! If you accidentally kill me, hide my body in the lake then blow it up, okay? Merlin, are you thick?"

Harry was torn between the reflex to defend his friend against the Malfoy fiend and the distress he suddenly felt at Malfoy's proclaimed death sentence. Could he feel any more like a third wheel? Hermione, however, spun on, scowling at the Slytherin before pointing her wand determinedly at the technological apparatus. "You're such an asshole, Malfoy."

Oh God no! screamed something inside Harry, his feelings desperately warring with his petrified mind to bring a halt to whatever was going to happen. . .

"_Abinsero Latus_," Hermione annunciated clearly.

The device vanished, and Malfoy immediately fell to his knees with a sickening crack, clutching his chest and crying out hoarsely in pain, "Arhhhh!"

Harry reacted on his gut's impulse and unexpectedly found himself on the ground with his arms gripping Malfoy's arms, mashing him to his own body, his emotions in a state of empathy. "Draco!"

Moments later, Hermione's arms were gripping Harry in the same way he was clutching to Malfoy. There was several pregnant seconds when it felt as if pain and despair had claimed them all – Malfoy wasn't breathing and Harry was on the verge of hysteria and who the fuck knew how a frantic Hermione was actually feeling. . .

Then Malfoy gasped desperately, abruptly taking a prolonged drag of air, then coughing fitfully. He was shaking frighteningly, racked by tiny compulsive twitches.

No amount of panic that Harry felt was able to instruct him on how to react, and Harry instinctively held Malfoy close to him as the blond wheezed raggedly and tried to rock himself back and forth in desperate attempt at calming himself.

"Shhh, shhh, it's okay," Harry found himself whispering soothingly as, in the periphery of his vision, he vaguely registered Hermione observing his behavior.

Eventually, Malfoy's gasping subsided; then, when he finally seemed to realize just who was stroking his back, he roughly pushed Harry away, despite obvious weakness, and stumbled clumsily to his feet. Hermione and Harry watched him with concern as he breathed heavily for several seconds before braving eye-contact with . . . Harry.

"I'm okay. . . I made it." A wry, fatalistic smile weakly flitted across Malfoy's face.

Hermione's expression was an unreadable mix of conflicted distress and concern, but this had little to no affect on Harry when he saw Malfoy stumble backwards. – but Malfoy pushed him away when he again reached out to help.

"Your assistance is no longer needed," Malfoy hissed feebly, but with ample malevolence and bitterness. "Go back to your perfect lives and live for a fucking forever. I'll deal with the rest."

Arm outstretched, as if to ward off Harry's help, Malfoy backed off; and a gentle but firm hand on Harry's bicep indicated Hermione's intention to simply let Malfoy escape whatever happened. Harry reluctantly found himself letting Malfoy flee, and was disappointedly left with only Hermione for answers.

! END OF CHAPTER !

What do you think? I hope you liked. I know that a couple ideas form my last story have reappeared in this one, it's just that I couldn't get them to work last time, but all is going well this time around.

Please review. I know I took a long time to update, it's just that work is so busy, and the partying has been non-stop. But reviews do serve to guilt trip me into writing more, so please. . .


	9. Day 4, Part 2: Through the Looking Glass

Disclaimer: There can be only one! Slice! (The sound of me decapitating JK Rowling, so that I can alter my changeling form and take her place!) Okay, now that was just weird.

Readers: Thank you so much for your reviews! They were the highlight of the couple of days after posting, and they spurred me to get cracking on this next chappy. But I hope my appreciation won't be rewarded with reader laziness during this chapter. Keep on showing the love!

Special shout-out to **SOLARCAT**, for interesting sociological insights into the reviewing habits of fanfiction readers. **URA-HD**: I would love to hear any comments you have on this topic (you might find it worth your attention to check out SolarCat's review).

WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS GRAPHIC SEXUAL DESCRIPTION. DO NOT READ UNLESS YOU ARE 17 OR OLDER. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

Ch.9: Day Four, Part II: Through the Looking Glass Day Four, Part II: Through the Looking Glass

Once Malfoy had disappeared through the glass greenhouse doors, Harry turned to Hermione with the most mixed and confused expression on his face.

"Hermione –" he began with some distress.

Hermione, however, dared fathom the unfathomable, and ventured (erroneously) to know exactly what was weighing upon Harry's soul. "Go to him," she said wisely, presumptuously.

"What?" Harry sputtered, his confusion compounding itself.

"Go. . . I know you want to." Harry's face acquired an impossible gradation of incredulity, he had never been so confused in his life; his jaw actually fell open. What was she going on about? But Hermione barreled on, clearly continuing to completely misread his situation. "I've known for a while now, and it's okay. I can't judge you, not on this. Our feelings take us to strange places."

Her delivery was impeccably calm and compassionate, reeking of one who believes herself to be all-knowing. Still, despite the fact that Harry couldn't quite conceive what she was hinting at (what in Merlin's name did she think she knew?), he couldn't help but latch onto her last sentence – our feelings do indeed take us to strange places, and Harry had always been one to follow his feelings, for better or worse. Those feelings had gotten Sirius killed, true, but Harry trusted them still, for it had not been his feelings at fault in Sirius' death but Dumbledore's willful decision to keep him in the dark. Harry could no more deny the direction of his feelings than a seer can deny her visions – to do so would be to deny a fundamental truth.

So Harry took the proffered opportunity to follow his gut, his heart, his soul. "Thank you," he gushed evocatively, roughly grabbing Hermione in a quick but meaningful embrace. And then, like that, he was out the door, chasing after the blond figure who had just disappeared through the doors of Hogwarts proper.

Despite the fear that Malfoy would disappear into the twisting hallways of Hogwarts, Harry found the Slytherin with little effort, walking calmly towards the Great Hall.

"Malfoy!" he called out, barely knowing himself what he was going to say.

Malfoy turned around abruptly, regarding Harry with an inscrutable expression completely devoid of surprise, and allowed the Gryffindor wonder boy to catch up with him. "What do you want, Potter," he demanded in a tone lacking both enmity and affability.

Intellectually, Harry was stumped by the question, but Harry had never been one to require his intellect to act intelligently. "Is that is it then, Malfoy?" Harry demanded in return. "You're just going to die? You've never been one for self-sacrifice. I thought you had more egoism than that."

Malfoy raised an impressed eyebrow for a moment, before an alluring, almost amiable smirk materialized on his pink lips. "You know me well, Potter. . . Alas, you underestimate the depth of my hate and rage and self-righteousness. You have always been blind to how much of my personality is composed of vengeance." He began stalking towards Harry, continuing with a hungry, manic glint in his eyes, "It's going to be _me_. No one has suffered more at their hands, I arrogantly proclaim, and so I am going to claim my right to retribution."

Harry was at a loss as to how he should respond to such a succession of outrageous statements, but that didn't prevent him from holding his own in the staring contest that Malfoy subsequently forced up him. Some analytical, distantly detached part of himself took note of and was impressed by how much of this reality he was able to discern from the mere act of listening.

There was a strained, intense handful of seconds, in which the two enemies were but a few inches from each other, then Malfoy hissed, "Fuck first period, let's find a room."

Curiosity and caution mingled, but Harry nodded nonetheless.

Malfoy didn't even wait to recognized Harry's affirmation – he had already turned away from him before promptly grabbing his hand and pulling him down an empty hallway to one of the many abandoned rooms that littered Hogwarts. There was some part of Harry that found a passive pleasure in having the ability to react to events, instead of instigate – it took away the responsibility of having to invent creative action from scratch. Beside, he was used to it. When you are Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, crazy-ass shit happen to you all the time, and you have to deal with it. Rarely had he ever sought trouble, trouble sought him. Still, it was with no small amount of shock that he found himself pinned limply against the wall of a vacant room, Malfoy's body pressed vertically along his own.

"One more time?" Malfoy inquired forcefully, erotically. "For luck?"

Panic and lust mingled as Harry felt his body react to Malfoy's proximity; it was so easy to respond without thinking, knowing that the consequence of one's actions would be erased by tomorrow. It hadn't taken Harry long at all to fall into such a mindset – probably because that is the mindset most natural to us all; the mindset that only unwillingly matures into the concept of cause and effect that is foreign to the child in all of us.

And so he found himself passionately kissing the blond beauty, without regard to intellect or reason – in a situation like this, passion overwhelmed the mind, and thought was easy to forsake. Tongues fought for dominance, lips caressed and sucked desperately, in a vehement display of desire until. . .

Abruptly, Malfoy broke away, and he gazed heatedly into Harry's eyes, his face fierce, tinged with desperation. The expression pierced Harry's heart.

Then Malfoy spoke. "Fuck me, Potter."

Harry choked and was suddenly coughing in surprise and disorientation as the truth of matters hit him, and he weakly pushed Malfoy away; but the Slytherin was not so easily dissuaded. He entwined his fingers with Harry's, holding his hands to the stone wall, then rubbed his body along the length of Harry's. "Come on, Potter, don't get squeamish on me now. I think I deserve a little more living before it's all over."

Harry felt like Alice through the looking glass. Have sex with Draco Malfoy! Human time bomb Malfoy! Harry had barely come to terms with being attracted to Malfoy, he certainly wasn't ready to lose his virginity so abruptly and unexpectedly. So what if Malfoy seemed to be under the impression that they had had sex before, he had had sex with someone else, some other Harry Potter, not _him_. _He_ had never had sex before in his life!

His mind was a maelstrom of objection, but his demanding erection and Malfoy's provocative and alluring features conspired to bypass his brain altogether. Hell, Harry found himself rationalizing uncharacteristically, he was sixteen, and who knows when he'd have another chance to pop his cherry, and he'd probably never have another chance to shag Draco Malfoy. (He completely forgot the fact that this was actually the second time in three days that he had been presented with such an opportunity.)

The war between mind and body was settled in a matter of seconds, and Harry found himself propelled into action.

He suddenly gripped Malfoy's thin wrists and pinned them above his head, twisting Malfoy's body around so that their positions were reversed and it was the blond who was pinned under Harry's weight against the wall. Malfoy's almost beseeching expression was instantly replaced with a confident, fuck-me grin. "Pound me into the floor, Harry, I know you want to," the sexy bombshell. Ugh, what an awful pun.

Harry felt the last vestiges of inhibition fall away as he unreservedly allowed himself to respond positively to Malfoy's attentions and desires. He dragged his own erection up Malfoy's leg until it met the hardness that was its own match. Both Harry and Malfoy moaned in relief as their manhoods pressed into each other, rubbing instinctively against each other in search of an unparalleled pleasure. . .

It was an unpleasant shock when Malfoy unexpectedly and forcefully shoved him away, and there was a moment of incomprehension before Harry realized that Malfoy had pushed him away in order to cast a silencing spell on the room and to rapidly strip off his robes and pants. Harry's eyes lingered on the delectably perfect body and the ivory skin being unveiled before him, and the only vestment of his own that he managed to discard was his robe. Unwillingly and unintentionally, he found his racing thoughts dwelling on what he knew of Malfoy's grossly mistreated past. How did this behavior fit into complex puzzle that was Draco Malfoy?

But such wandering was again driven away by incurable lust as Malfoy (now starkers) crushed his lips to Harry's. Malfoy's hands quickly made their way up Harry's shirt, touching and rubbing; Harry's own inexperienced fingers mirrored Malfoy's, tracing down the soft skin of the blond's lithe body until he unexpectedly found himself freely groping Malfoy's readily available genitals. He almost pulled away in surprise, but Malfoy pushed into his palm as he finished unbuttoning Harry's shirt.

Harry knew he was clumsily manhandling Malfoy's privates, but the Slytherin didn't object; he had moved on to unzipping Harry's pants, which pooled around his ankles, causing Harry to stumble awkwardly as Malfoy pushed him towards the only table in the room.

In the second it took Harry to regain his balance, Malfoy had positioned himself against the table, arms and torso resting on the surface and perfect ass arched up. Time froze – it was so surreal that Harry was temporarily stunned. A kamikaze _Draco Malfoy_ was exposing himself wantonly, obscenely, to _him_, Harry Potter, and they were seconds away from having completely unhampered intercourse. . . and Harry knew that there was no way in hell he was going to back out now. The vision of Malfoy like that was nearly enough in and of itself to make him cum.

Almost as if he was acting under the Imperius, Harry reached out and tentatively rubbed Malfoy's firm behind, causing the suppliant boy to moan and push back into Harry's hands. Encouraged, and on the verge of hyperventilating, Harry parted the cheeks to get a glimpse of what he was suddenly fixed on – Malfoy's tiny, pink asshole, quivering in anticipation.

Drawn as if by magic, Harry's digit traced up Malfoy's cleft to shyly touch the delicate muscle; Malfoy trust back again, and Harry barely managed not to jerk away in surprise as the tip of his finger disappeared into Malfoy's tight hole.

Malfoy growled in frustration. "Stop playing, Potter! Get on with it already!"

As inexperienced as Harry was, he was pretty sure that something more was required – as it was, there was no way his dick was going to fit into that diminutive opening. "Don't we, uh, need lube or something," Harry asked uncomfortably, his mouth dry, inwardly slapping himself for sounding so very much like he hadn't a clue what he was doing.

"Fuck, Potter! Are you an imbecile? No!"

Harry flushed in embarrassment and anger. Fine, Malfoy, have it your way.

Malfoy cried out in agony and lust as Harry forcefully penetrated him in one powerful lunge. He was so tight and dry that Harry was in pain too, but it just served to drive them both into a crazed outbreak of frenzied fucking. There was no thinking, just intoxicating adrenaline and sensation so powerful it was unrecognizable as either pleasure or pain. They were both screaming, but neither heard; a faint smear of blood appeared on Harry's member, but neither noticed.

It was over in moments, Harry burying himself deep inside of Malfoy, Harry's weight pressed Malfoy's spent body against the rickety table. "Oh God, oh Merlin," Harry gasped.

There was a long, heavy pause before Malfoy jerked away – violently, so that Harry's sensitive organ fell away, exposed to the elements. Though Malfoy stood trembling, propped against the wall, he still managed to seem proud and indifferent. Harry felt numb and profoundly incredulous, until he noticed the traces of drying blood.

"Shit! Malfoy, there's blood! I didn't mean to hurt you! Are you okay?" Harry babbled a little hysterically, stumbling towards the other boy.

Malfoy leaned away from him, and an expression of extreme distaste materialized on his face. "What the hell is wrong with you, Potter? Of course there's blood, we just engaged in rough sex without any lubrication!"

"You said we didn't need any!" Harry accused, sounding every bit as upset as he felt. This whole experience, barely ten minutes in length, was turning out to be rather traumatic.

"And we didn't! I'm fine!" Malfoy retorted angrily. "Why do you suddenly care anyway?"

That shut Harry up instantly.

As long seconds passed in which Harry could offer nothing but uncomfortable silence, Malfoy's annoyed look morphed into one of suspicion. His eyes narrowed and he leaned closer, over tha half meter that separated him from the Gryffindor wonderboy. "What's going on, Potter? What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," Harry stuttered unconvincingly.

"Don't lie to me," Malfoy hissed dangerously, grabbing Harry's naked shoulders in a painful grip. "Whatever it is, it better not interfere with tomorrow."

Harry wanted to ask what was happening tomorrow, but all he managed was, "It won't, I swear."

Impossibly, Malfoy's eyes narrowed even further. "I knew it, something _is_ happening."

He hadn't asked a question, but it was clear that he expected an answer, and it occurred to Harry that maybe he could use this opportunity to get some answers out of Malfoy. . . if the Slytherin was as hell-bent on saving the wizarding world as he seemed to be. Well, maybe 'saving the world' was an overly charitable interpretation of Malfoy's drive for vengeance. . .

Harry nodded cautiously.

Malfoy let his hands drop from Harry's shoulders, and Harry was a little disappointed in the loss of contact. "Tell me," Malfoy demanded firmly.

Slowly, Harry nodded. "Okay. But I was telling the truth when I said that this has no bearing on tomorrow. I'm only going to tell you because you might be able to help."

Malfoy pulled away further, a deep hurt apparent in his features. "_Now _you think I can help? Now that I'm a day away from dying for your cause, you are able to come up with a way for me to be useful after all?"

Harry felt a deep stab of guilt (accompanied by a disturbing desire to kiss the blond), but Malfoy's predicament wasn't _his _doing. He had no response to Malfoy's wounded question, so he said nothing.

Malfoy breathed deeply and appeared to pull himself together. "Fine. I'll help if I can. . . What's going down?"

Harry turned away and picked up the pants that lay abandoned on the floor. "I'm not who you think I am. I come from a different reality in which you and me – we're different people. Some things are the same, like Ron and Hermione being my best friends, but some things are completely different, like our. . . relationship. You never offered me help, you never gave any indication of not being on your father's side. And we certainly never did anything like. . . what we just did. In fact, this was my. . . my first time."

Malfoy's mouth fell open slightly in disbelief, but his eyes clearly revealed a racing mind.

"I know, it's unbelievable, it's impossible. But someone used the _Quareo Tempus_ potion," Harry rushed on, running his hand through his messy hair – though he didn't miss Malfoy's body tense at the mention of the potion. "But they left out the missing ingredient, now I'm stuck, everyday going from one reality to the next, searching for answers. Then yesterday – in a different reality – Snape told me that you might have once figured out the extra component necessary to make the _Quareo Tempus_ controllable, which just might allow me to steer these jumping timeline back to the original one."

Harry zipped up his pants, then bit his cheek and and looked at Malfoy as he waited for his response; powerful gears were obviously turning behind Malfoy's closed mask, but what conclusion he would draw was anyone's guess.

"It can't be that simple," Malfoy finally commented shrewdly. "You're not telling me everything."

Harry suppressed a quell of irritation; why couldn't anything with Malfoy ever be easy? "No, but I hardly think that all the details are relevant," he bluffed –

Quite convincingly, apparently, as Malfoy pondered his words for a moment longer before reluctantly submitting. "Okay, Potter. Pretending for a moment that I believe your incredible story, which I must admit is only substantiated by your complete sexual ineptitude – " Harry flushed, and Malfoy continued, "Snape was right. I do know a few of spells and potions that have pretty good odds of being the, uh, 'extra component' you are looking for."

"A few? The one I'm looking for has Ent tree's blood," Harry hurried to add, desperately close to the answer he was searching for. One of Malfoy's elegant eyebrows arched in recognition.

Harry fixated on Malfoy, who promptly affected disinterest and began donning his own vestments. Harry waited for patient seconds, aggravated by the disappointment of Malfoy's disappearing skin, before he demanded in a strangled voice, "Well!"

Malfoy nonchalantly finished buttoning his shirt before returning his crafty attention to Harry. He stalked towards him slowly. "And what, pray tell, do I get in return for giving you such _crucial_ information?"

Harry was thrown for a loop, and all he could offer in an aggravated response was, "What do you want?"

Malfoy stopped about half a meter from Harry and studied him for a long moment. "Well, there's not much I can ask for, given that I am thirty six hours away from nonexistence." He approached Harry so closely that the latter found himself once again aroused and up against the wall. Harry trembled in nervousness as Malfoy gently rubbed his cheek along Harry's jaw, before whispering seductively in his ear, "Remember me. Remember me well; and when your friends, or the press, say something horrible about me, tell them that I wasn't that bad, that I did what I could to save the world too."

Malfoy pulled away slightly to gaze intensely into Harry's emerald eyes. "I will," Harry returned earnestly. "I swear."

Malfoy's face inched closer, until his lips were brushing Harry's, before whispering, "_Anticipare ab Deducere_."

! End of Chapter !

Please review! The speed of this posting was partly self-inspired, but the other part of my inspiration came from me fabulous reviews. I am a serious writer and am OPEN TO CRITICISM. What could I be doing better? Which parts do you need improvement? I apologize if this chapter is a too graphic for some readers' tastes, I just write what I feel. (On the other hand, I gave you some sugar, show me some love!) I hope you lot are looking forward to the next chapters as much as I am!


	10. Days Four and Five: A Whole New World

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter characters and universe are the property of JK Rowling and I make no claims save for that of storyline.

REVIEWERS: THANK YOU SO MUCH! I received quite a lot of reviews in this last week and a half, and it has pleased me greatly. I will endeavor to reciprocate by continuing to provide you with high quality fanfiction literature.

Chapter 10: Days Four and Five: A Whole New World

"_Anticipare ab Deducere_?" Harry reiterated, his tongue and lips trying out the words. His mind repeated them several more times, determined to score them in his memory.

Malfoy pulled away again and stepped back about a meter to begin to meticulously fix his hair. "Yes," he answered absently. "It was one of the solutions my great uncle Satanus Malfoy proposed, in his crazed prose and nearly illegible handwriting, before he was found comatose in his study. It is a potion that will transplant the drinker's consciousness into his or her body at some desired point in the past. . . I suppose if one knew the future, it would also be possible to transplant one's consciousness there. Feed it to the person who took the _Quareo Tempus _potion, then he'll be able to control movement through the realms, at least until it wears off."

Malfoy had finished messing with his hair, and was strutting towards the door to pick up his wand. Did that boy never stop moving around?

"Wait!" Harry started towards Malfoy's retreating form: he was just beginning to get somewhere, and he certainly didn't want to lose his source of information so soon. Malfoy turned around deliberately, and Harry got the distinct impression that Malfoy wouldn't be providing any more information without a good deal more _persuasion_. It's a time altering potion, isn't it? As in, highly illegal and very difficult to brew?"

Malfoy nodded, looking completely unconcerned, though some other fancy seemed to have touched his imagination and inspired a gleam of interest in his storm-colored eyes. The powerful memory of his recent ravishing flashed through Harry's mind, but he barreled on, "Then where am I supposed to find the complete instructions for such an illegal potion? And how am I supposed to brew it in the _one day_ I have before being whisked away to another world?"

How was Malfoy supposed to know the answer to that last question, Harry's sarcastic inner voice commented. And yet, Malfoy gave no indication of not knowing the answer; indeed, he gave no indication of having heard either of Harry's questions, though surely he must have. "Tell me, Potter. What am I like in your timeline?"

Harry was a little thrown by the rather incongruous topic. "Hunh? What do you mean?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes, his fingers fidgeting with his wand. "I mean, am I like I am now? Am I completely different?"

Okay, he could answer these without too much difficulty. His thoughts flickered back to the Draco Malfoy that he known for the last five years. Well, _known_ might be a generous interpretation of his understanding of the blond. "I don't know you that well. You're good at Quidditch, really good actually, though I still always win. You hate that, I know. In fact, I'm pretty sure you hate me too, and all my friends. You're always horrible towards us, calling Hermione a mudblood, calling Ron Weasel, saying really awful things to me about my parents. We get in fights a lot, and quite a few detentions together. But the Slytherins adore you. Even the seventh years. You're their undisputed leader, I think. You're always talking about your father, how great he is. Everyone thinks you're going to be a Death Eater just like him."

Malfoy's expression clearly revealed how pissed off he was. "It's an act, to protect me," he ground out forcefully. "Like the way I am here. It has to be. I would _never_ be like my father. He's, he's. . . you wouldn't understand."

Merlin, the other boy was so upset off that he was actually shaking; he had stopped talking and was studying the ground near his shuffling foot. Without giving it any thought, Harry stepped closer and placed a comforting hand on Malfoy's upper arm. He felt an inexplicable connection with the Slythern – not one born of some freakish potion, but one born of empathy, of also haven been abused by the ones that were supposed to love you. "I understand, kinda. My. . . After Voldemort killed my parents, I was sent to live with my aunt and uncle. I was. . . like, their servant, their house-elf. I had to do all the chores, and they were always yelling at me and telling me what scum I was. They dressed me in rags and forced me to live in a cupboard. I never even believed in magic until my Hogwarts letter came."

Malfoy still didn't look up, though his limbs had stilled. There was a heavy silence before Malfoy quietly asked, "Did they. . . hurt you?"

Harry wanted to _Petrify_ his emotions, confused as they were with input from every direction: long-held and deep-seated hostility, a piercing and empathetic sympathy, and an unidentifiable twist of feeling rooted in attraction and lust and. . . life. "No," he said hoarsely. "My cousin would get in a few punches sometimes, but he was so fat that he couldn't usually catch me."

Malfoy looked up at that and offered a weak smile. Harry knew the answer, but he asked anyway. He wanted to hear it for himself, and he couldn't help but feel that Malfoy wanted – or maybe just needed – to say something. "What about you? Did your father. . . hurt you?"

Neither boy could've broken the eye contact, even if they had wanted to; and despite the unthinkable activity they had engaged in just a half hour ago, this was by far the most intimate moment Harry had ever shared with the Malfoy heir. Finally, Malfoy nodded slightly. "I used to be. . . well, jealous of you. V-Voldemort tried to kill you as a baby, and instead he ended up practically dead. I used to wish – I still wish – that I had that power. That anyone who tried to hurt me would find. . . their efforts revisited upon themselves instead."

Harry nodded in understanding: vengeance wasn't solely a Malfoy prerogative. How often had he wished to inflict his revenge upon the Dursleys? Upon Bellatrix? And as for Voldemort. . . sometimes he wanted to torture that bastard into oblivion, then resurrect him just so that he crush him again.

Harry moved forward and tried to hug the wretched boy before him, but Malfoy gently pushed him away and moved again towards the door. "I've already missed double History, Potter, I'm not going to miss Ad Potions too."

Harry was again surprised and somewhat impressed with Malfoy's ability to move from one emotional state to another. Still, there was one last bit of information he need. . .

"Wait. What about this potion? How do I make some?"

Malfoy muttered an unlocking spell before turning back to Harry, a smirk on his face. And yet, it was betrayed an underlying friendliness. "It was you who took the _Quareo Tempus_, wasn't it?"

"No," Harry answered bluntly, a little anxiously.

Malfoy's lush lips sobered a little. "Then it was me." Malfoy pondered that for a long second before reaching for the doorknob. "Don't give up, Potter. Ask me tomorrow."

Then he swung open the door and marched out as if he owned the entire building and there was nothing unusual about screwing and talking to one's supposed enemy from an alternate timeline. Harry was left emotionally exhausted and he slumped to the floor to play dead for a few minutes.

! BREAK !

A few minutes turned into a few hours, and Harry was woken suddenly by the sound of a sharp rapping. He sat up quickly, disorientation rapidly melting into a disconcerting flood of memory. His first coherent thought was, _I can't believe I just lost my virginity to Draco bloody Malfoy_. This disturbing realization was accompanied by an equally disturbing rush of pleasure and affection, before a second loud rapping brought his attention back to what had woken him up – a school owl pecking purposely at the window of this chilly room.

He stood, a little surprised to recognize the healthy sensation of overworked muscles in his thighs and abdomen. He made his way to the window, opened it, and untied the scroll from the bland owl's leg –

_Detention, this evening at seven, for failure to appear to Advanced Potions. _

That was all it said, and Harry rolled his eyes. Almost immediately, his stomach rolled in corresponding hunger. He glanced at his watch – it was lunch time, and he famished, but he had to get to the library to research this_ Anticipare ab Deducere _potion, before school discipline forced him into inaction.

He ran out of the abandoned room, down the corridor, a right, then up several flights of stairs, a left, down another corridor, then slowed to a jog as he finally reached the library.

He stayed in the library for hours, uninterrupted as he skipped class after class in search of yet another time altering potion. He found plenty of references to it, and descriptions of its effects, and even accounts from those who had illegally taken it, but no instructions on how to brew it. He gathered from several allusions that it was related to a psychotropic potions designed to allow the severely scarred to revisit their past, but he found pragmatic information to be relentlessly lacking.

The only class he actually made it to was Advanced Care of Magical Creatures, the last class of the day, during which Ron continuously prodded him for what had transpired during all the classes he had missed, and Hermione had satisfied her concern and curiosity by casting him worried and weighted looks.

After ACoMC a famished Harry hurried to dinner, indicating that he had too much to think about to discuss matters with his two best friends. True to form, his friends persisted in their interrogation until he snapped at them and told them to "shove off and leave him alone." Both Ron and Hermione were noticeably put off by his dismissal and left him even more despondent when they obeyed his wishes and let him be.

He was so fucking frustrated! It had been four days since the beginning of these trials, and he was still so fucking confused! He still didn't know what he felt towards Malfoy, though he was under the obvious impression that his confusion was beginning to lean towards being in favor of the Slytherin menace. From what emotions he could discern, he felt empathy, sympathy, lust, admiration, a desire to help; aggravation, irritation, desperation. . . where had the anger gone? Was it no longer deserved? Did what he learn about Malfoy over the last few days truly apply to _his _Malfoy, the one he had hated for so many years now?

He couldn't say.

So he went to detention with Snape, which was the total horror that he'd predicted, hand scrubbing the day's potions mishaps under the potion master's intense and inhospitable gaze.

For days now the confusion had been so constant that Harry fell asleep that night feeling almost accustomed to the new pattern of events. After all, tomorrow was going to be a new day.

! BREAK !

Harry's eyes fluttered irritably awake, greeted by near total darkness, his heart racing oddly. His body sat up tiredly, but his mind was already dashing away at the speed of thought: Malfoy, bomb, sex, Malfoy, _Quareo Tempus_, _Anticipare ab Deducere_, Malfoy, potions, Voldemort, sex with Malfoy, Dumbledore, Voldemort, Malfoy!

Harry stumbled out of bed loudly, then suddenly sucked in and held his breath to determine if anyone else was awake. After a silent moment decorated by light, even snores, he grappled for his glasses to glance at the snitch-shaped clock by his bead – 1:52 AM.

Ugh. Day Five, beginning at an ungodly hour.

By all of Merlin's logic, he should be asleep, but he could tellthat wherever Malfoy was at the moement, he was WIDE AWAKE. Harry couldn't place the exact nature of the adrenaline rush: he was anxious, but it was an indeterminate kind of anxiousness, the kind that made you jittery, and drove you blindly without any direction. He could try to go back to sleep and deal with this day's insanity at a more reasonable hour, but the fantastic magic that was forcing Harry to vicariously experience Malfoy's emotions was forcing Harry's blood to pulse to the foreign rhythm of his so-called nemesis.

Yes, his so-called nemesis was most certainly hopping with energy and activity; and wherever he was doing it, it was some place far away, most definitely not in Hogwarts. Harry gave into the urgency of the moment and began dressing quickly, grabbing his invisibility cloak, then stopping momentarily to scribble a guilt-inspired note to his roommates.

_Ron, mates: Don't worry about me, and don't call the watchdogs. I've gone on an important adventure. Don't worry, nothing to do with Voldemort. Will be back before dinner. Harry_

Looking at his note, Harry couldn't help but feel like a total idiot. What was he doing? Running off after an altered Draco Malfoy in the middle of the night, into a situation he couldn't possibly predict? Who knows what he was getting himself into? Guilt and indecision flared up. Should he recruit reinforcements? Did he really want to involve anyone else in something that might turn dangerous?

Irritated by his inability to make a decision with confidence, he jumped on what was quickly becoming Old Reliable – there would be no long term consequences beyond this day, and so no permanent harm could be done by bringing some backup. Right?

So he knelt over Ron's bed and roughly shook his shoulder. The redhead moaned slightly and tried to turn away, but Harry didn't give up and he was soon rewarded by a sleepy, "Hunh? Whassup 'arry?"

"I've gotta do something important," Harry whispered. "Save the world and all that. I was hoping you'd come with me."

"Whah. . . ?" Ron sat up and rubbed his eyes. "What's going on? Did you have a nightmare? Was it. . . You-Know-Who?"

Ron could just make out Harry's shaking head. "No, it's nothing that dangerous. But it's really important, and I'd feel better if you were with me. Can I explain it to you on the road?"

Ron gave him one last puzzled, long-suffering look before nodding and getting out of bed. Harry's sense of guilt increased, settling sickeningly in his throbbing heart. He didn't deserve such trust, such loyalty, not after his brash actions had unwittingly led to Cedric's and Sirius' deaths.

Ron dressed even more quickly than Harry had, and they were soon heading down the stairs from the boys' rooms, through the Gryffindor common room. . .

"Shouldn't we get Hermione?" Ron asked, anxiously looking in the direction of the girls' dorms.

Hermione would have been a welcome addition to their party, of course, except for one critical problem – the staircase would transform into a slide if either boy tried to make it to her dorm room. So Harry shook his head. "There's no way to wake her up without waking up the whole house. I left a note upstairs that says we haven't been kidnapped or anything."

"Right." Ron sounded a little unsure, but he followed anyway.

. . . past the Fat Lady's sleeping portrait, down several more cases or stairs, through a certain dark passageway that led to the Whomping Willow (thankfully asleep). . .

Harry began running until he was well past the outskirts of Hogwarts, nearing Hogsmead, with Ron's comforting presence running alongside. He was purposely not indulging the various intriguing thoughts that insinuated themselves into his conscious mind, for they would only distract him from the mission that he had firmly latched himself to – to find Draco Malfoy. And Draco Malfoy was most certainly not in the direction he was headed.

He stopped abruptly and looked around. Ron took the opportunity to breathlessly ask, "What's this about, Harry? What are we doing out here in the middle of the bloody night?"

Harry slowly spun around in the field he was crossing, trying to get a fix on the direction that the yet unexplained connection was pulling him. . .

"Tell me," Harry began with artificial nonchalance. "Where do you think Draco Malfoy is tonight?"

Ron looked completely thrown by the question. "Draco. . . _Malfoy_? Who's tha– wait. Draco Malfoy, right, isn't that the name of Lucius Malfoy's son? The one that disappeared? Where is he tonight? How'm I supposed to know! Probably dead! Even if he did run away, I can't see his father standing for that." Ron's bewilderment was beginning to be replaced by mild anger. "Okay, Harry, now I'm really confused. Are you going to tell me what the bloody hell is going on?"

That way. Harry's poor sense of direction suggested that it was south, but before he could apparate, he needed to explain matters. "Here's the thing Ron. It's a really long story, and my involvement is more complicated than anything either of us wants to get into right now. But the skinny of it is that Draco Malfoy has somehow managed to concoct a supposedly impossible potion that has changed time – less for us, and most for him. But there have been several unacceptable affects, and while Snape and Dumbledore have provided some assistance, I am in a unique position to fix matters. And to do this I need to hunt down Draco Malfoy and convince _him _of the error of his ways."

Wow. His explanations were certainly clearer and more concise the more times he had to practice, though phrased that way it did seem like an impossible task. Ron was looking at him with an expression of gentle shock (he'd be a lot more outraged if only he knew how problematic it would be to persuade Draco Malfoy of _anything_), but he was able to swallow Harry's story with surprising ease. "Are you sure about this? And Dumbledore sent you on this mission."

Harry nodded – Dumbledore had sent him, after a fashion. "You don't have to come along if you don't want to. I know it all sounds barmy and hair-brained, but believe it or not I actually think I know what I'm doing this time around."

Ron smiled. "Naw, mate. And let you have all the excitement? I wouldn't miss the opportunity to meet the Malfoy runaway for all the world! Besides, however barmy this all turns out, I'm sure it won't be half as nutters as some of the shite we've seen."

Harry returned the smile, then, with a minimum of thought, he wrapped his invisibility cloak around Ron and himself and disapparated as far south as he felt he could without splinching them. They stumbled over each other and almost fell to the ground with the force of the disorientation upon apparation. Harry managed to right himself pretty quickly, and looked around to notice that they had landed on a farm, directly on top of some unidentifiable produce. He slowly completed a 360 degree turn, meticulously focusing again on the direction of the interpersonal pull. . . still south.

And so they apparated several times more, Ron holding on for dear life as each time they found find themselves closer and closer to some ill-defined mark, until they were in an urban muggle area of some familiarity. It was muggle London, Tottenham Court Road, somewhere near Oxford Street. The sky was gray, the way it is in London. It should have been as dark as space, but Europe's worst case of light pollution has left the whole city with a perpetual case of grayness, be it night or day – it barely matters, as sun light or electric light constantly reflect off the cloud layer either way. Drunks of every age, race, and orientation were stumbling up and down Tottenham Court Road as Harry and Ron instinctively made his way south. It was the whole world's party animals, unwittingly gathered in one city at 2:30 AM.

Wherever Malfoy was, it was _very_ close, and Harry didn't even bother to apparate underneath his invisibility cloak.

"How are you doing this?" Ron asked in amazement. "You're tracking him, I mean Draco Malfoy, right? But how?"

Harry really didn't want to get into the intricate details, especially considering that he didn't understand the details of the connection himself – something to do, no doubt, with getting caught up in a potion calibrated for someone else. "I don't really know. It's kind of like a tracking spell," Harry explained vaguely. "I can tell his direction and vague proximity, but it works more of intuition than any really information about him. Hence the traipsing across the brilliant English countryside. Sorry about that."

"Nah. It was kinda nice," Ron replied off-handedly.

Two blocks south and one block west, and they were standing before a club in which Harry was pretty certain they would find Malfoy. There were men at the door checking an invitation list, but muggle bouncers couldn't stop what they couldn't see and Harry and Ron slipped easily by, though a couple of people looked awkwardly at the air that had just bumped into them. . . .

Harry had never before been inside a muggle club, and yet there he was, surrounded by so many bustling muggles. He jostled Ron to an inconspicuous corner to shed his cloak, realizing that they would be more invisible amongst the muggle masses than as a large, tangible obstruction amongst the moving throngs.

He wasn't drunk, but it was impossible not to feel so amongst the jumping, dancing, yelling, singing, and thoroughly intoxicated muggle crowds. . . There was a band playing loud music, and the air was pungent with sweaty heat and cigarette smoke. He was so close to Malfoy; he couldn't see him, but the vicarious high had reached such intensity that Harry's mind was swirling on what bordered on excited incoherence; Malfoy was somewhere nearby, having the time of his life. . .

Ron was sticking out like a sore thumb, but in London, where anything goes, well, anything goes, including gawping, strangely dressed redheads. Instinctually, Harry wanted to take up residence at the bar, before realizing that he hadn't any pounds; instead he settled for scanning the crowd, desperately hoping that identifying Malfoy would be as easy as following his intoxicated signature. . . But the whole club felt like Malfoy, overwhelmingly so: it felt like excitement, and energy and mystery and danger and depth and everything. . . it felt like being drunk and hyperaware at the same time.

"Do you know what this bloke looks like?" Ron asked loudly over the noise. Harry never got to answer before the attention of the entire club was drawn to the stage as the band finished its last song and a booming voice rang out over the din.

"WE ARE PROUD TO PRESENT OUR SPONSOR, OUR CLOSE FRIEND, THE MAN WHOSE VICTORY WE ARE CELEBRATING TONIGHT! . . . OUR GUEST OF HONOR, DRAGON MATHERS!"

Harry's attention was immediately pinned to the stage, where a muggle band was stationed, awaiting. . . Draco Malfoy.

! END OF CHAPTER !

PLEASE REVIEW! Thanks for baring with me for so long. The next two chapters should be the height of this freakfest, before it is time to bring the story back around.


	11. Day Five, Part One: Stranger Danger

Disclaimer: Not Mine! JK Rowling is richer than god!

Reviewers: Thank you! Your words please, so I will not destroy your village today.

Ch. 11: Day Five, Part 1: Stranger Danger

_This _must be what going mad feels like – Draco Malfoy taking the stage, to the wild applause of a youthful muggle crowd. People were screaming and hollering cheers, a good portion of them were chanting, "Dra-gon, Dra-gon!"

And Malfoy, Malfoy was –

Malfoy had transformed again. His blond locks were gone, replaced by a short, honey colored buzz cut, and he was certainly looking very. . . fit; wearing a tight sleeveless T, and gray cargo pants. He was holding a glass of some dark colored liquor on the rocks, and was smiling widely in exhilaration, flush with open excitement, and he was waving and shouting back at his. . . friends? Acquaintances? Admirers? Who were these other people, amongst whom Draco Malfoy could be more open than he had ever been seen to be in the wizarding world?

Ron's jaw had fallen open, and a tremble raced through him. "That's him, idd'n it? I'd recognize those features anywhere."

Harry managed to nod, but he didn't move his eyes from where they were fixed – Malfoy had taken the microphone offered him by the lead singer, and cleared his voice lustily.

"Is this what victory tastes like!" he demanded, raising his glass to the crowd before shooting back the liquid. There was a thunderous response from the dance floor, and Malfoy spat an ice cube out into the throngs.

"It tastes good, " he grinned after the roar had died down. "It tastes like speed, like flying. Like a party with good sex." He smirked and people laughed naturally. "None of us would be here if we didn't love the life. This party is every bit as much about you as it is about me. Tonight is _our _night. As for Mick Knightley. . . well, I doubt he'll be wanting to revisit these streets any time soon. I think we showed everyone that. . . HE AIN'T NOTHING BUT DUST-EATING ROADKILL!"

Harry thought the insult rather lbizarre in its choice of imagery, but the crowd ate it up, screaming in unison. Malfoy motioned for the noise to dampen, and it did. "I just want to express my recognition of some of my long-suffering friends, our band, people! Mr. Fantastic and the Fucking Idiots!"

More cheering, and the band members – whose music seemed pretty good from what Harry had been able to hear before this insane interruption – the band members bowed exaggeratedly. Malfoy flashed one final, luminescent grin, and waved shortly before exiting stage right. After a moment, music started up again, and then dancing; though Harry could still make out a slight commotion that marked Malfoy's journey from the stage to the bar, not too far from where Harry and Ron stood awkwardly.

After a moment Ron said, "Well. One of us should go talk to him, should we?"

Harry nodded silently, but the prospect did not look good – Malfoy was engaged at the bar with four hot chicks, and two men that were almost as good looking as the Slytherin prince himself. He already sported a new drink, and his attention was casually caught by his fluttering companions, who kept saying, _Dragon_, _Dragon_, _Drag_.

Harry was in motion almost before the idea had come to him, but it was an old Gryffindor trick to bravery – act first, think and feel later. He fearlessly stalked up to the group and stood behind Malfoy's fuzzy head. After a few seconds the voices died as the Dragon's friends glared suspiciously at the messy specimen that had taken up resident behind their star.

The fiercest looking of the hot chicks gestured to Malfoy, who promptly leaned around to look at Harry. His expression remained neutral, but there was glint of interest in his eyes. "Do I know you?" he asked provocatively.

Boldface honesty had always been Harry's forte. "If not my face, then you know my name. And I know your name, _Draco_."

Malfoy froze, for just a flinch of a second, but Harry caught it. Then his jaw clenched and that was the only warning before Malfoy had whipped around and grabbed Harry's forearms, pushing them away from his friends. The rush of adrenaline was both thrilling and exciting.

"I've gotta deal with this," Malfoy threw over his shoulder to his friends, as Harry allowed himself to be manhandled towards an exit – after all, he was getting what he wanted: a private audience with Dragon Maloy. He smiled slightly as he made eye contact with Ron, who looked aghast, before he was driven through a back entrance.

Malfoy must have known just where to go for privacy, as the back lot was surprisingly empty. He turned around, his skin as gray as his eyes under London's nightlight glow. He looked tense, and he was glaring mildly, but this Malfoy was harder for Harry to read than any of the ones he had dealt with so far. "Okay, smartass. Who are you and what do you want?" His voice was even, without betraying any attention.

"I am Harry Potter," he proclaimed (he had done this so many times now that it was almost down to an art). "And I need your help."

Malfoy's eyes shot to Harry's scar, visible now that he was looking for it. His lips parted in surprise and he looked genuinely impressed for a moment, before shaking his head and muttering. "Oh god, I think someone slipped me something."

"What? Don't be ridiculous, I'm not a hallucination. I've come because there is a serious problem in the wizarding world that I need your help with, Malfoy." The sexy teeny began laughing towards the end, and Harry's aggravation at Malfoy was a welcome reminder of what a git Draco Malfoy always is, in whatever realm. Still, the frustration was only serving to make Harry feel more hot and bothered – argh! It felt like he was channeling the exhilaration of the entire club!

"That must be quite an opening line with the ladies," Malfoy sneered gently. "_I'm Harry Potter, and I need your help_. I bet witches everywhere fall over themselves."

Harry glared back, "Sometimes."

For a moment Malfoy's reaction was up in the air, then he smiled in amusement. "Well, Harry Potter, this is quite an honor. Rumors of your recent exploits have been heard even here, through metaphorical muggle grapevines."

Malfoy reached out and grabbed Harry's forearm in a ceremonial wizard's greeting, surely feeling the wand the other boy had strapped to his left arm. Harry reeled with general surprise at the entire exchange: his mind couldn't seem to get past registering intoxicating skin conflict. "Thank you," he responded – his reflex to all such displays from strangers.

Music thumped from behind the heavy metal door.

Malfoy withdrew his arm, and again Harry felt disappointment at the loss of contact. "Welcome, I am Draco Malfoy, as you are apparently already aware, though muggles know me as Dragon Maloy."

Harry nodded, cautious because unpredictable people made him uncomfortable and because Malfoy always made him suspicious. "Is there somewhere we can go to talk properly? I have some very serious business with you."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "So you've said. Of course I'll help if I can, your Harry bloody Potter after all. . . it's like the Queen coming up to me and asking me to save the Kingdom – but. . . we can deal with all that later. Right now, we're at a great club, celebrating _my victory_, if you haven't heard, and I want to buy you a couple rounds!"

Harry, already drunk on the atmosphere, on Dragon, on Malfoy's projecting emotions – simply hadn't the willpower to resist.

! BREAK !

"Uh, do you mind if I ask what you won?" Harry asked as he followed Malfoy back through the club, but his question got lost in the music. Malfoy gestured at his friends before pushing his way to a piece of the bar a couple meters from them. People parted for Malfoy, occasionally saying hi or clapping his hand. Saddled at the bar, a luscious, fiery-haired bartender immediately came up to them.

Malfoy took a long, obvious eyeful of the young thing, who smiled back flirtatiously. "Three vodka redbulls, and a piece of that cherry pie." Malfoy nodded towards her.

The redhead grinned at him. "Coming right up."

Malfoy turned towards Harry, who had taken a seat next to him and was still studying him in astonishment. Who on earth was this person? Had aliens taken over Malfoy's mind!

"So, Potter, I don't reckon you've had many muggle drinks, do you?" he asked with interest.

Well, Harry didn't really drink many wizard drinks either – not _alcoholic _drinks; but he was under the definite impression that Malfoy probably drunk a lot. Indeed, he wouldn't be at all surprised if Malfoy had been taking something else that night.

"No, not many," he responded, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Then you'll have fun tonight," Malfoy responded salaciously.

"I guess," Harry said, blushing, and clutching at a way to change the direction of the conversation. Was Malfoy flirting with him! This seemed much more out of character than rough sex in abandoned classrooms; he'd have been more surprised, except that everything about the last few days (and how about the last five years?) had been so unbelievable. It was hard not to be jaded, despite superficial startle.

Harry was temporarily saved by the return of the pretty waitress, who smiled brightly at Malfoy. Inspiration struck in time to then save him from witnessing any prolonged flirtation. "Who's the third drink for?"

Malfoy turned to him, holding his drink and handing another one to Harry. He used his own drink to gesture at the crowd. "For your friend. He's been gaping at us the whole while, and now he appears to want a drink."

Harry glanced over and, sure enough, Ron was mulling obviously over by a pillar. There was a slightly pathetic look about him that did seem to indicate a desire to drink. Harry waved him over, and Ron clumsily made his way through the people with an excited look on his face. _This _was going to be an interesting introduction.

Harry turned to Ron as he drew up next to him. "Ron Weasley, this is, uh, Dragon Mal-oy. . . Maloy, this is Ron."

Malfoy clasped Ron's arm the way he had done to Harry, with a slight chuckle. "Maloy? Nobody but the cops call me that. Are you sure you guys aren't law enforcement?"

Harry just rolled his eyes, but Ron grinned. "Naw, mate. Good walks on both side of the law, Dra-gon."

Malfoy smiled back in obvious amusement and Harry was amazed that they appeared to actually be getting along. Ron barreled on, "I've been dying to ask, what did you win?"

Malfoy frowned slightly. "You don't know?" he asked disappointedly, looking at Harry, who just shook his head. "I guess that means that you don't need me for as a driver?'

Now Harry was a little confused (a driver? Why would they need one of those?). "No. . . it's a bit more complicated than that."

Malfoy sighed, then took a long drink. "Well, of course I'll help if I can. But I gotta tell you, my father will kill me if he finds me, probably in the most painful manner imaginable. Whatever you and the Ministry want from me, I need anonymity. I need to remain forgotten from . . . that world, and those people."

Harry didn't know what to say (my, a pattern); Malfoy turned away to pick up the third glass and pass it to Ron, who promptly took a bountiful swig, then was struck by an expression of amazed wonder. "But to answer your question, I won a racing tournament, and banked a pretty sum in the process."

"Brooms?" Ron asked absently, more occupied with eyeballing his drink. Harry elbowed him sharply, but Malfoy laughed. "What?"

"No. What I am talking about is infinitely superior to brooms. This is something much fiercer! It's like being on the Bufana's Superfast Superbroom, except that your broom is a monster. . . Our _rides_, mate. We ride our _cars_. . . It's better than drugs, and it's better than sex." Malfoy was caught halfway between condescension and a genuine desire to convince them of greatness.

Harry smiled, amused to see a little bit of the irrepressible Malfoy obnoxiousness. "So you're a racecar driver?"

Malfoy looked at him as if he was a little daft. "Not quite. I am still a minor you know? I race the underground scene, get it? Besides, it's dirtier, and more dangerous. And there's more money, if you can play your cards right."

Harry had to admit, he was a little impressed with this Dragon Maloy – Draco Malfoy hadn't done too bad on his own in the muggle world. He was the kind of bloke was just naturally popular wherever he was.

Harry brought the drink to his lips and swallowed lustfully. It was going to be a long morning.

! BREAK !

Harry woke up sometime later to a fuck-all blinding light!

It took a torturous moment for him to figure out it was the sun, and that he felt like absolute crap. His mouth was dry and his head ached profoundly, his mouth tasted foul and his skin felt slimy. He sat up carefully and, next to him on a big floor mattress, there was Ron, snoring and sleeping uncomfortably – fully dressed, like Harry, except for his shoes. Harry felt in his pants and was relieved to feel that his Invisibility cloak was where he had hung it – on the waist of his boxers. His wand was still snuggly strapped to his forearm He looked over to the other side of the furnished room, where a couch had been opened out, and two of Malfoy's friends were sleeping there together.

The adjoined room was a kitchen, but another room, with a mostly closed door, was probably a bedroom. On top of a DVD player, a cable box flashed _2:13_.

Oh shit! The day was half over and he still hadn't made any process with Malfoy! He hadn't even tried! All he had done was. . . drink in extreme excess – with Malfoy and his friends! They laughed and argued loudly, talking as much about such universals as sex, women, and Shakespeare as about such muggle things as football, music, and politics. Ron had been extremely entertaining all night, his occasional displays of ignorance being mistaken as amusing evidence of drunkenness. . .

Slowly more memories came back, of uncomfortable familiarity. During occasional minutes Harry had been alone with Malfoy, they had scant shared personal information! Merlin, that must have been a result of the liquor! There had been dancing too! Fuck, Harry didn't even know how to dance, but apparently he hadn't cared at the time! And. . . flirting with Malfoy, he had done that too, hadn't he! It felt like he had done all these things, though it was difficult to remember. That he had had a blast, however, was doubtless, and Harry found himself grinning despite the nagging impression that he should be appalled by the night.

He glanced back at the almost closed door: he should go wake up Malfoy, they needed to talk. He rolled carefully off the bed, then stood for a long second while his stomach adjusted to the new position and altitude. He picked his way across a floor littered with clothes, dirty glasses, beer bottles, and ash trays; then he knocked lightly.

There was a pause then someone moaned, "Whaaat?"

Curiosity had been mounting by the second, so Harry wasted in no time in pushing open the door to reveal. . .

Naked arses. One shapely female arse, and one firm male arse, to be precise. Upon further (if slightly stunned) observation, a fuzzy blond scalp peeked out conspicuously from the sheets, sandwiched between the two enviable specimens of sleeping nudity.

A couple seconds passed before any movement took place – the white sheet was pulled down lethargically by a few creeping fingers, exposing the squinting, scrunched-up (but, damn him, still attractive) face of Draco Malfoy.

"Whatta you want?" he asked in irritated puzzlement.

The pit of envy and embarrassment did not sit well with his delicate stomach, and Harry had to fight off nausea for a moment as his skin flushed uncomfortably. It was all he could do to stick to the mission. "It's past two, and I really need your help _today_."

Malfoy's eyes widened suddenly, looking at the electronic clock beside the bed. His eyebrows shooting up, in an 'oh-shit' expression that looked positively ridiculous on his usually elegant features. Then Malfoy flew out of bed, with no regard for his sleeping companions. Harry was granted yet another eyeful of Malfoy's naked body as he yelled, "Bloody cunt mother-fucking shit!" and dashed towards an open closet.

The two nudes stretched and groaned erotically as they woke, but Harry couldn't budge his gaze from where it was fixed (again) – on Malfoy, now crouching and digging through a pile of clothes. Then he was standing, pulling on boxers and a ratty pair of baggy tan cords. His ass disappeared from view, then his back as he pulled on a white T. He turned around so quickly that Harry could've been easily caught ogling, except that Malfoy was in such a hurry that he hadn't even time for peripheral observation.

"Harry, go wake up Kel, we've got less than a half-hour!" he exclaimed, before power-walking to the bathroom.

Caution was quickly yielding to curiosity as Harry hurried back to the sitting room, where he gave Ron a quick shave (knowing it would take a couple tries to wake him anyway) before going to Kel.

Kel was a wild black woman of Caribbean decent, who also happened to be highly attractive (all of Dragon's friends were): her body was strong and curvaceous, while her face strong and intelligent, and her personality strong and active. She lay on the fold-out couch, mostly naked, with Rob, who (it seemed to Harry) was also a good friend of Dragon's.

Harry shook her awake, gently but insistently (he had had lots of practice with Ron over the years). "Kel. . . Kel. Wake up. It's after two. You've got less than a half hour."

Kel's eyelids blinked painfully at him once, without recognition, before closing for a long second – then Kel sprang out of bed almost as fast Malfoy had. Last night's clothes lay pooled on the floor. "Bollocks! Bloody voodoo bollocks!"

Despite the constant weight of 'his mission', Harry was tinkling with urgency and excitement, titillated by this new world where anything could happen next! He returned to Ron and shook him again, as Malfoy walked out of his room, rapidly brushing his teeth, his face damp. He spat in the sink, and opened the refrigerator – it was still so fascinating to see Malfoy operating in such a muggle setting!

"Ron!' Harry said for the fifth time, tearing his eyes away from Malfoy and embarrassed by just how much time he had spent recently staring at Draco Malfoy.

Ron seemed to finally get the picture, and he sat up. "Ugh. My head hurts," he rasped.

"Come on you guys!" Malfoy called. "Put on your shoes and get something to eat for the road!"

The two wizards looked over at Malfoy, who was guzzling some orange juice, a power bar in his hand. Kel rushed to him, and took her turn at the OJ keg. Ron and Harry only had enough time to put on their shoes before Malfoy and Kel were marching towards the door – Malfoy throwing a power bar to each of them as they passed.

Then all four of them stomped down two flights of stairs, Malfoy saying something about his car, ". . . my ride only sits one passenger, and Kel has a motorcycle. . ."

Once out on the street, Malfoy turned to Kel, "Take Ron there and get me registered, 'kay? I'll be there in time."

Only then did Harry understand the significance of Malfoy's explanation.

Kel grabbed Ron's hand and tried to take off. Harry almost opposed the separation (it wasn't safe, was it?), but the meaningful glance from Ron stifled his objection – the redhead appeared uneasy, but _pleased_. It was hard to say whether he really wanted to spend time with a dark, devastating woman, or really wanted to take on a ride on a muggle motorcycle. Harry gave his friend an affectionate look, and let him go.

His thoughts were cut off by Malfoy tugging at his arm. His hangover was displeased to discover that Malfoy had them immediately jogging down the street; then, after a glance at his watch, Malfoy had them running – no, _sprinting_. And the fit bastard was _fast_. They tore down five blocks, by which time Harry was exhausted (and a good half block behind), before Malfoy stopped and unlocked the metal inner-door of a large garage gate. Harry followed Malfoy through to find him driving up in what appeared to be a modified Lamborghini.

Suddenly, Harry had a much greater understanding of just what sort of event they were late for.

"Get in!" Malfoy yelled, as the garage outer-door began to lift up.

Harry didn't hesitate, though his stomach was in knots: he was in full-on action mode.

The inside of the car was black leather. Malfoy had donned sunglasses and looked as stunning as the ride. He turned to look at Harry. "Remember last night, when you said you loved being a seeker because of the speed and the focus?"

"Yeah," Harry responded, not without some nervousness.

Malfoy grinned, biting into his powerbar. "Well, focus on this speed."

Then he floored it.

! End of Chapter !

Well, I hope you enjoyed. I know this is quite AU (which I find hard to by into myself), but I guarantee that this is the pinnacle realm – after the next chapter, we will be moving into the second phase of this story. I am excited to be reaching this milestone. PLEASE REVIEW!


	12. Day Five, Part Two: A Race Against Time

Disclaimer: Not mine!

Ch. 12: Day Five, Part Two: A Race Against Time

Large, rimmed tires screamed as the vehicle immediately executed a left turn to skid onto the street. Barely a beat had past before they were tearing down the road, swerving to pass other cars, and then on the sidewalk, barely dodging pedestrians. Still, they were lucky that Malfoy lived in an outlying neighborhood of London – if they had still been near the center, the sheer density of automobiles and people would have made even speeding virtually impossible.

The Lamborghini squealed down street after street at such a death defying and reckless speed that Harry hadn't even the time or wits to figure out where they were going. His eyelids were peeled back, his hand gripping the seat and door. Malfoy drove like he flew – full speed and on spontaneous reflex, and not an ounce of common sense. It was far more sickening for Harry as the passenger than it had ever been on his broom, as Malfoy's opponent.

Abruptly, he turned down a one way road cul-de-sac, gas peddle to the floor, flying over the curb (with a loud thud!) and onto a field. Harry heard a shot and suddenly saw through the front window a good number of cars accelerating through the dusty grass. . .

Malfoy had pushed the car to a nauseating speed, tearing a direct path towards the racers. Then his horn and his tires were screeching as the vehicle hit the dirt road, just behind the other cars. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Harry's grip on the seat and door had become so tight that his knuckles hurt.

"I can't believe those pricks started without _me_," Malfoy growled, like the asshole any sane fool knew him to be. Harry dared take his eyes off the road to glance at the driver. Malfoy was tense, teeth clenched, with a determined glint to his wild eyes: he was going to win or die trying, just like when they flew. Except that Malfoy was right – this was more frightening and more exhilarating than anything on a broom. It was terrifying, just knowing that there would be no magic around to save them in case of an accident, and that they were racing around in four ton metal death traps that wouldn't leave time for magical intervention anyway.

Out the front window, so much dust was being kicked up that Harry could barely even see the cars in front of them. Malfoy took the opportunity to say something, as if they weren't at the heart of a very dangerous situation. "Hey!" he said over the engine roar. "You wanna know the best thing about racing cars instead of brooms!"

"What!" Harry asked reflexively, too focused on the road in front of them to really participate in any verbal exchange.

"Inertia! You know, that 'objects in motion will remain in motion'! Brooms are charmed to dampen inertial effects, but that really throws me off! It's so unnatural. When you run there's inertia. And when you drive, inertia is half the experience. It's what lets you do this-"

Given the poor frontward visibility, Malfoy's words were all the warning Harry got before the massive mechanical monster lurched and swerved. Malfoy had punched the break, and violently wrenched the wheel to right, so that tires scraped along the ground and the body of the car swung out left. Harry barely had time to whimper before Malfoy floored the gas again and shot forward: this time, however, the dust had cleared considerably and only a handful of cars could be seen in front of them. A quick glance over his shoulder proved that they had left the rest of the cars (and the dust cloud) behind them at the bend. Harry thought he could make out what looked to be a pileup.

"Malfoy, you prick! You're gonna get us killed!"

Malfoy was grinning maniacally, looking every bit as crazy as he momentarily was. "Don't call me that, my name is Dragon! And I've never gotten anyone killed so far, but I guess it could always be time to start!"

"Whatever," Harry retorted, but his words got swallowed as Malfoy switched gears and released another burst of acceleration. By this point he had a pretty good view of the four cars ahead of them: two flashy sports cars, one modified junker, and in front. . . one real racing car! With a mini body and protruding tires and everything! Harry was impressed – he'd never seen a real one in person, and now he was racing one! Gradually, his anxiety was being replaced by his love of speed and excitement. Odds of death aside, this was actually pretty thrilling.

Just as they were nearing what looked to be a hairpin turn, the Lamborghini finally caught up with the lagging sports car, and Malfoy experimentally rammed its back fender.

"Dunno who this arsehole is. Must be a newbie," Malfoy muttered, barely audible over the engine whine. He inched his ride forward to nudge the other car again, this time more persistently, leaning on the left side of the bumper. For a long second the cars rumbled strangely in unison, before Malfoy shifted up to the highest gear (Harry was pretty sure that normal cars didn't have gears that went up to 7!). And then, with a nauseating lurch, the other car spun out violently to the left, executing a 540 degree (A/N: this is a full circle, plus a half circle) turn before coming to a shocked stop.

Harry found himself laughing in a mix of genuine excitement and borderline hysteria, while Dragon released a very un-Malfoyish cry of jubilation. "Haha! Eat dust, newbie!"

Harry was so caught up in the thrill of the encounter that he didn't realize that they were on the cusp of the hairpin turn, traveling at a kamikaze speed. Malfoy wrenched the steering wheel, sending them into their own gut-jerking spin that somehow, miraculously, landed them in the right direction to take off after their next target – the junker.

Malfoy wasted no time regaining their previous velocity; indeed, he managed to do so faster than their target, and in moment they were baring down on it.

Suddenly it appeared, inexplicably, as though the other car was moving to the left of road to let them pass.

"Get your head down," Malfoy gritted out as they pulled along side the other car. Harry obeyed in time to see the other driver point a medium-sized handgun out at him.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Three bullets raddled off in quick succession and glass shattered all over Harry.

He knew he hadn't been hit, but there was still a long second in which he foresaw his death – the tragic passenger in a speeding car with a wounded driver.

Still, when his death did not prove immanent, he glanced over a Malfoy, who had now brandished his own big-barreled Desert Eagle AN: look up a pic of this baby online! and was aiming at the other racer over Harry's crouched back.

**BANG!**

The noise was deafening, then a scraping of wheels indicated that, even if the other driver hadn't actually been shot, he was at least careening off the road. Harry's head bolted back up to confirm this, before turning to Malfoy, wide-eyed in shock. Mugglized Malfoy he could handle, racing he could deal with, but _guns_? He felt just like he had the first time he had gone to Diagon ally when he was eleven – like he had just entered a whole new universe. One with firearms.

Malfoy didn't seem particularly surprised, though he was distinctly enraged. "Son of a bitch! That's the second time that bastard has tried to off me on the track! I'm gonna fucking kill him! Completely unacceptable behavior!"

Completely unacceptable behavior? Who said things like that in situations like this! Well, besides Malfoy obviously. . . Harry found himself again laughing somewhat hysterically. His whole life was simply surreal to the point of insanity. Did the world have no rules, no _laws_, whatsoever? If magic could exist, and gun-totting Malfoys, who was to say that anything was impossible?

"Well, I'm glad someone's having a good time," Malfoy grumped, bringing Harry at least partially back to his senses. Malfoy had already set his sites on the only car left in front of them – the blue, somewhat beat-up racecar. (The other sports car having fallen victim a shot tire.)

"Who does this arsehole think he is!" Malfoy demanded loudly (sounding a little crazed) over the engine roar. "Doesn't he bloody well know that racecars belong on a fucking RACETRACK!"

"Maybe he thinks the competition is easier 'round here!" Harry yelled back. Oh yes, there were bother off their rocker. . .

Malfoy scowled in outrage, flipping open a flap near the stick shift to reveal a big, ominous red button. "Hold on!"

Harry was already holding on with a life-or-death grip, but that didn't prevent him from trying to clutch harder. Malfoy punched the button, and Harry felt his body flatten against the seat as the car leapt forward at an incredible speed. Knowing little about cars (and nothing about nitro), Harry could only assume that Malfoy had preformed some form of magic on his ride to make it capable of such speed.

In the distance Harry could make out what appeared to be the end of the race, while the actual distance between the Lamborghini and the racecar was dwindling to nothing –

Shit! They were going to crash into the other car!

It happened so fast, it barely registered. They rammed into the racecar's protruding wheels at such a speed that they smashed off the blue tailfin and mounted the back of the car! The Lamborghini's front tires came in contact with the racecar's back tires, and the combined force of the spin sent them reeling through the air, over the top of the other car. . .

Those moments in the air were terrifying in a way that flying on a broom had never been. Harry's stomach plummeted, a petrified 'eep' escaping his lips. Malfoy himself could be faintly heard yelling panicked expletives. . .

And then they hit the ground with a sickening thud, just fractions of a second before the racecar inadvertently hit _their _fender – both cars swerved uncertainly before the other driver lost control and the racecar veered violently and unevenly off the road.

Harry didn't even have time to regain his wits before they peeled across the finish line in first place.

! BREAK !

Once they came to a stop, Harry bolted out, barely able to stand his legs were so shaky. A loud and rambunctious herd of people had suddenly mobbed the car, but luckily they seemed much more interested in Dragon Maloy than they did in Harry Potter. Well, except for this one redhead –

"Harry! That was excellent, mate! I didn't know muggles had it in them! The way you flew over that other car! Did you guys use, uh, well, you know?"

A couple passersby jostled Harry and he stumbled into Ron. "No. . . That particular incident was as much as a surprise to me as it was to. . . Dragon."

"I can't believe this guy, I bet we would have been great friends if he hadn't run away," Ron gushed. Harry could barely believe his ears, but Ron barreled on, "I wish I had been the one racing with him! But Kel's motor-circle was super cool! She drove here so fast, it was like being on the world's biggest broom!" Only then did Ron seem to notice the condition of the Lamborghini. "Merlin, what happened to the bloody windows?"

"You didn't see it?" Harry asked incredulously, his stomach knotting just at the thought.

Ron shook his head. "There's so many people, it was hard to see anything!"

"The bastard in the other car pulled a gun on us! Then Malfoy pulled a gun on _him_! It was like something out of a bad movie!" Harry looked over to where Malfoy had been less than thirty seconds earlier, but he had completely disappeared in the crowd. "Shit. Let's go track him down. I need to his help _today_."

! BREAK !

It was half past five by the time Harry and Ron managed to pry Malfoy away from his adoring fans and his wild friends to finally have a much needed private conversation. Malfoy had been most reluctant to leave the burgeoning festivities and now sat on his couch looking like he knew that whatever Harry Potter and Ron Weasley wanted from him, it wasn't going to pretty.

It could never be said that Draco Malfoy wasn't astute.

"So what is this all about?" Malfoy's gaze flitted between the two standing wizards, while Ron watched Harry with almost as much apprehension.

Harry chewed his lip for a moment: he'd had plenty of time to plan how to break the news to Dragon Maloy, and yet he found himself winging it, as always. "Have you ever heard of a potion called _Anticipare ab Deducere_?"

Malfoy frowned for a split second before an appalled and wary expression solidified on his features. "Yes, actually, I have," he asked, suddenly defensive and suspicious. "Why?"

"I need to brew it, and it has been suggested that you might know how."

Malfoy's sharp eyes narrowed even further. "Suggested by who, exactly?" Malfoy ground out, sounding every bit as dangerous as the Malfoy Harry had know for years.

"Severus Snape," Harry answered bluntly, with such candidness that he even impressed himself. He only hoped his gamble paid off. What if this Malfoy had never even known Snape?

"Oh," the studly blond stuttered, clearly surprised, and his suspicions seemed somewhat eased. "Well, he's right, I do know. But why didn't you just ask him?"

A credible lie popped into Harry's head unbidden. "First of all, he's a teacher, isn't he? He can't get involved to deeply into what are, regrettably, covert and somewhat illegal affairs. But he did point me in the right direction. And secondly, well, the situation is a little more complicated than just the _Anticipare ab Deducere_."

Malfoy blanched slightly – a feat that was only really possible because this Malfoy was substantially more tanned than any of the previous. "This is about the _Quareo Tempus_, isn't it?"

Harry nodded and Malfoy dropped his head into his hands, rubbing his eyes and forehead. Finally, he looked back up, appearing tired and defeated in a way that was completely foreign to his Dragon Maloy alter ego. "So you want to know how to brew it?"

Harry nodded and Malfoy continued, "It's easy actually. There's this divination potion that you can buy at any apothecary – it's called _Animadverto per Vicis_. All you've got to do is add Ent Tree's blood, and you have the _Anticipare ab Deducere_."

Harry took reign of his emotions to prevent himself from shouting out in relief. He was so close now, he couldn't afford to blow it. He turned to Ron and beckoned him nearer. He reached into his pocket and was disappointed to find only a couple galleons and a few knuts.

His eyes locked with Ron's for a weighted exchange meant to convey the critical significance of what he was about to say. "I need you to do something for me. Here. Take this money and go to Diagon Ally. Buy a vial of _Animadverto per Vicis_."

Ron nodded, and Harry reached into his pants to pull out his invisibility cloak and handed it to his best friend. "I know this is a lot to ask, but it's more important than anything I have ever asked of you before. I also need you to go to Knockturn Ally and steel some Ent Tree's blood."

Ron squirmed unattractively, but his freckled expression held just as much determination as fear, and he managed a terse nod. "You can count on me, Harry."

Harry gasped his friend's arm reassuringly. "Thank you. . . Do you remember Malfoy's address?"

"Yeah," Ron assented uncertainly.

"Okay, then. I'll call you a cab, when he comes you can give the driver the muggle address for Diagon Ally and he'll take you there. To get back just wave down a cab on the street – there's a lot in that part of London – and give the driver this address, okay?"

Again, Ron nodded apprehensively, and Harry turned back to Malfoy.

"Malfoy-"

"That's not my name!" Malfoy exclaimed, obviously upset by the speedy spiraling of events.

"I'm sorry – Dragon. . . could you spot Ron twenty quid for cab fare?"

Malfoy's eyes twitched and his fists clenched, and Harry thought for sure he was going to refuse. . . but instead, he reached into his pants, retrieved his wallet, and fished out several bills. He held them out to Ron with such resignation that Harry recognized suddenly that Malfoy – Dragon, rather – was feeling much the way Harry had felt for the last few days: completely bowled over by outrageous and unwelcome (yet undeniable) twists of fate. As Harry knew only too well, there was nothing to do in situations like this except go with the flow and surf the waves of change; either that or drown.

"Could I use your phone?" he asked quietly, feeling a pain of sympathy. Malfoy nodded, gesturing to a wall-mounted telephone.

Ten minutes later, Ron was gone and Harry sat on the couch next to Malfoy, who had neither spoken nor moved. Harry studied him where he was sprawled, eyes closed and head facing the ceiling as it rested on the back of the couch. He was beautiful and sexy, he couldn't deny it, but Harry still didn't know what conclusions to draw from any of the Malfoys. The hate he had always felt was gone, certainly, and the anger too, but his affection was fickle and vacillating, and his understanding of the blonde's true personality was weak. He knew what the clearly dissimilar versions had had to endure and how they had reacted to their different situations, but he could sense that there was an underlying consistency of character that was just beyond his grasp. Even now he had no idea what the other teen was thinking.

After a weighty, but oddly comfortable silence, Malfoy was the first to speak. "So now what?" Malfoy finally asked, opening his eyes and looking over at Harry.

Harry shifted a little closer to Malfoy, figuring that that he would need a little softening up before Harry dropped the horrible bomb on him.

"Voldemort's back." Okay, so maybe it was less of a 'softening up' and more of a roundhouse punch to make the KO that much easier.

Malfoy had completely frozen for a beat; then, in an infinitesimal and fascinating transformation, his expression hardened ferociously.

"My father will be pleased," he hissed, baring several teeth in the process. Harry shivered: he could feel the vicious depth of Malfoy's emotions that were so clearly painted across his features, and it reminded him of Voldemort's irrational hatred and rage. Though Malfoy's sentiments probably sported a fair share of rationality and justification.

Harry nodded. "He was. He's in Azkaban now though."

"Good. He certainly belongs there," Malfoy spat, jumping to his feet to pace and light a fag. Harry could see the handgrip of Malfoy's Desert Eagle peaking out from the back of his pants. After a long drag Malfoy asked, "So how exactly do I fit into this foul situation?"

Harry considered his next words carefully. "It has been prophesized that I am to be the one destroy Voldemort. Well, either that or die trying. As you, can imagine, this is quite a responsibility-"

Malfoy snorted, and Harry abandoned his careful words as irritation flared at the flippant interruption. Then, as Harry continued, his irritation bloomed into a full blown venting of the pent up anger he harbored towards Malfoy for having gotten him into this situation.

"- A responsibility I was doing my best to fulfill before your cowardice screwed everything up. Now the wizarding _and_ muggles worlds are at the mercy of a genocidal maniac, and there's nothing I can do because I'm stuck traveling through your insane alternate realities! All because you couldn't suck it up and deal! So your shit is bad Malfoy, well so's mine! But you don't see me running to some _Quareo _bloody _Tempus _potion! Do you!"

At the beginning of the tirade, Malfoy had listened with shock and trepidation; but as he pieced together what Harry was ranting about, his clever mind picked up on a serious flaw in the accusations of Boy-Who-Lived. "Hold up, just one second, Harry fucking Potter," Malfoy shot back with his anger. "Firstly – _Quareo Tempus_ only takes the ingestor to alternate realities. Which means that, if you truly are skipping realities, that it is _you _who took the potion. Secondly – don't think that half a day in my company means that you know anything about me, or my so-called 'shit'! You know _nothing _about me!"

Malfoy's skin was flush with rage, and poison dripped from his words, but by this point both boys were feeding off each other's antagonism. "No, Malfoy! _You _made the potion! For _yourself_! I tried to stop you, but we both got soaked in it! Only it wasn't finished, so then we got sucked into this horrible nightmare instead! And you're wrong! I've known you for _years_! And I know a lot about you and your fucking shit! Your father is a monster! I know what he did to you! He hurt you and abused you and ra-"

Harry abruptly swallowed his words as he found himself staring down the bloated barrel of Malfoy's very intimidating handgun. "Don't. Finish. That. Sentence."

Anger was instantly replaced with a cold fear and Harry suddenly missed the days of fistfights and hexes. Somehow, an _Avada Kadavra _just didn't evoke the same primordial fear as a firearm – maybe it was just a result of being raised muggle.

After a moment he noticed Malfoy's arm shaking faintly and he cautiously inched his hands towards the Desert Eagle pointed at his head. Eyes locked with Malfoy's, he gently eased his arm down until the gun was pointed at the floor. He recognized the moment as a delicate one, and he tried to formulate delicate words. "I'm sorry, Mal- Dragon. I had no right to get mad at you, you have no memory of our history. And you're right, to an extent – I've known you for years, and I know more about you than either of us would like to admit, but I've never really _known _you. I can only imagine what it must be like to be you, what it must have taken to drive you to such desperation that you would ingest that potion. But. . . from what I've seen, I don't believe that you are a bad person. I even kinda. . . uh, you know, like you. That's why I've come to you directly, instead of trying to trick you or something. Because – Merlin, I hate to say this – I've gotta save motherfucking the day, and right now I can't do that without you. And I have reason to believe that you might be up for helping."

Harry was impressed with his own eloquence, and he could only hope that Malfoy was too. Indeed, during the course of Harry's speech, Malfoy's stance had gradually relaxed and his expression had become pondering. "I like you too, Potter, even though I just met you. It does kinda feel like I've known you forever. . . and, oddly enough, I. . . I trust you. Well, that's not true, but I believe you anyway. . . like there's a part of me that is skeptical that I'm living this life that I have right now. . . like there's too much at stake, and the pain is too fresh. . ."

Malfoy sighed wearily and sucked on his neglected cigarette with dying aggravation, trying to gather his wits for the next Act of their conversation. "So, let me see if I understand you correctly. You want me to take the _Anticipare ab Deducere _so that I can return you, and me, to a timeline that I apparently I abhor. . . So that you can save everyone from the Dark Lord."

"That's right."

Malfoy turned away and walked to the window. Harry's words were too easy to believe: they felt true, despite their outrageousness. Malfoy's gut knew that he was. . . too content, too carefree. . . too foreign. This was not the life that had made him who he was. His memory claimed that he had had six years of independence in which to have gotten over his father's abuse, but his emotions and his body were too raw. Misery and desperation felt too familiar. Scheming and deceit were a second nature.

Of course, there was no moral ambiguity to the situation. Malfoy's mind whirled silently for over a minute, trying to find a hole in Harry's story and evaluating just what options were available to him. But it didn't take him too long to figure out that he didn't really have a choice. He could hardly deprive the wizarding world of its prophesized hero; he had stooped pretty low in his life, but leaving everyone to rot was. . . inconceivable.

Damn! It just seemed so unfair that Harry had interfered in the first place. If Malfoy's other self had been left to his own devices, he would have successfully executed the _Quareo Tempus_, leaving Harry Potter securely in his own timeline and transplanting himself safely to this realm, where he could be. . . happy.

Malfoy absently crossed his arms around his stomach and hugged himself. He spared a moment to bask in the warmth of what it felt like to be _him_, _here_, in _this _life. He could almost. . . love himself, and that felt heart-breakingly good.

With a final drag on his cigarette, he stabbed it out on the windowsill and turned back to where Potter was carefully observing him.

"Okay, Potter. I'll take us home if I can."

! END OF CHAPTER !

Thank you for reading. Please review. This chapter seemed to go on forever! I sincerely apologize for my severe case of long-windedness. I wrote myself into a corner and there was nothing to do except keep going on. Next chapter marks the beginning of the second half of my story, which will be told more from Draco's point of view. I'm very excited!


	13. Day Five, Part Three: Synthesis

Disclaimer: I am JK Rowling! That is why I post crappy slashy fanfiction under an anonymous name. Now bow before me.

Ch. 13: Day Five, Part Three: Synthesis

The taxi dropped Ron off in front of a familiar boarded-up building, and the Gryffindor sighed in relief – he was pretty sure the cabbie had been odd even by muggle standards. He was much more comfortable now that he recognized something of his world, and he promptly entered the tavern. No one paid him any mind as he crossed through to the stoned walled enclave, where he struggled to remember for a second before tapping his wand against a sequence of bricks and. . .

The gateway opened up to reveal a bustling Diagon Alley. Ron grinned and set out through the Saturday night crowds, making sure to avoid anyone who might know him around the twins' shop. Going to the Slug & Jiggers Apothecary was a small matter, though he was relieved so late – but then again, some stores were simply such that best sales could be made during the later hours.

In the shop, his nose was foully assaulted, while his eyes perused past fangs and claws to the a corner where mushrooms hang from the shelf pillars, obscuring earthy potions. He smiled at the wrinkled witch behind a shabby counter, who only glared at him warily. Her disapproving expression turned to one of appraising, detached pity when she saw what Ron brought up the up to her desk. She accepted his money, but she rasped a warning, "Don't take it unless you can truly accept yourself, kid. That can open your eyes, but if you're not ready: it can break you."

Ron swallowed loudly and nodded, before fleeing the reeking confinement.

Now that the easy part had been accomplished, Ron felt his pulse pick up excitedly. Harry hadn't explained all the details, but it felt good to be out doing adventure, and it was an ego-boost to be doing it alone. He was nervous, but relatively confident. He could do this. . . right? He and Harry were going to fix time. Whatever that meant. What exactly was _wrong_ with the timeline? What were they going to end up changing?

Ron found the questions a little disconcerting, but he didn't give it too much thought. Harry was always getting mixed up in matters much bigger than himself, and often all Ron could handle was his portion of such affairs. Besides, Ron trusted Harry. And that is why he descended into a cellar to don Harry's invisibility cloak. There was Gringotts, and Knockturn Alley was just around the corner.

He cautiously turned onto the foggy, humming street, sounds of activity betraying the presence of life hidden in the artificially bright steam and artificially dark shadows. Ron hugged the cloak tight to his body, took a measured breath, then hurried in. And, Merlin! The things he saw: a couple old wizards playing chess on rickety folding chairs, a trio of drunks, a man with a whorish witch under his arm, pan-handling bums of course, and dodgy wizards with drugs and potions and who knows what. Soon he caught sight of a dim light coming from the window of Borgin and Burkes. This was it.

!BREAK!

Ron didn't return until well after nine, by which point both Draco and Harry were beginning to suspect that he would not be coming back at all. Potter grinned in relief and hugged his friend, who looked eminently pleased with himself (if a little shell-shocked).

"Did you get it?" Potter asked when their manliness began to feel threatened by the length of their embrace. Dragon sat morosely on the couch watching their exchange.

"I sure did," Ron gushed smugly, retrieving one small vial and one _tiny_ vial from his robes. "I had to wait until someone enter Borgin & Burkess, and slip in with them. It was fantastic! I tiptoed around and looked for it, and I was almost beginning to panic 'cause I couldn't find the bloody Blood! But then I managed to maneuver into a storage room, but just as I closed the door behind me, I almost got scalped by this flying sword! There was nobody there, but this thing was cursed to all-hell! It took several swipes at me before I was able to petrify it! As it turned out, this _huge _and _terrifying_ battle sword was so big and unwieldy that it was too slow for me. Those D.A. practices really paid off. . ."

Potter smiled at his friend's rant with genuine interest, but mild impatience, and was relieved when his tale finally came to an end," . . . Merlin, it was so loud I thought I'd be caught out! But I managed somehow. I swear, getting the trixit – uh – traxi back here was the hardest part, until I figured out that all you have to do is wave your hand and one magically appears. It's pretty clever."

Dragon rolled his eyes, more out of a general sense of aggravation than any genuine irritation towards the Weasely. His nerves were on edge and he was frightened; whatever had driven him to change time must have been unimaginably horrendous if he had managed to survive so many agonizing years without resorting to such extremes. That he couldn't remember a past that _felt _real made it all the more ominous. But it didn't matter, he kept telling himself: however unbearable his true life, it would have to be borne, for now there was so much more at stake than just him.

His mind shied away from thinking of his guest as Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. When he had first met the endearing Gryffindor, he had sensed an inexplicable connection, as if their personalities and souls fit, and it had felt fun and wonderful – not just to experience such a connection, but to do so with the great _Harry Potter_. But it had become apparent that, if they could indeed by friends, it was only because they were polar opposites in so many ways: Potter was determined and brave, and destined for great things; while Dragon Maloy was nothing more than a weak and cowardly attempt to escape the inexorable fact that he was Draco Malfoy, who had been unsuccessful even at that transformation.

Dragon rubbed his fuzzy scalp for a moment taking his failure hard, before his irritation at his two guests forced him into action. Ron and Harry were discussing the two vials, comparing them, holding them up to the light, eyeballing them. . .

"Christ!" Dragon blurted, jumping up and striding towards the Hogwarts students. He grabbed the two vials out their hands, uncorked them, and did a quick mental calculation based on the quantity in each. Then he poured half of the Ent Tree's blood into the larger vial.

"Uh, are you sure you know what you're doing?" Ron asked uncertainly, and Dragon looked up to see that Harry's nervous expression.

"I think it's a little late for doubting me," he sneered, a familiar nastiness surfacing under strain, before beginning to vigorously shake the bottle. But the provocative behavior didn't infuriate Harry the way it used to, as he was newly able to read the behavior for what it was – a defense mechanism born of fear.

"Draco. Dragon, whatever. I just. . . I just want you to know that you have my help with . . . what is to come. I'm going to make sure we both get out of this _whole _mess." Potter's words were earnest, and Harry had always been oddly charismatic, but Dragon was not the trusting sort. He was pretty certain that Harry fucking Potter was about to ruin his whole life in one day.

Then Wealey and Potter watched motionlessly as Dragon lifted the vial, its once blue contents now indigo with the addition of the red Ent tree's blood. He sniffed it warily just once before throwing his head back and shooting it down in two swigs.

It tasted like grape liquorish. . .

Feeling odd and a little dizzy, Dragon opened his eyes and blinked at the two wizards in his living room. Were they looking at him strangely? He glanced down at himself – he didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. When he looked back up at them, they seemed a little blurry. . . Actually, their bodies seemed to be rippling. . .

"Oh, it's going to be one of _those _kinda trips," he rasped, this throat constricting in fear.

And that was all the sound he made before a bright flash engulfed him, disappearing instantly and leaving an unconscious body to fall limply to the ground.

! BREAK !

He dreamt he was leaving down the stairs of Hogwarts, briskly, as if holding check the desire to run. (Except that he had never been to Hogwarts , he wasn't supposed to know what the great castle looked like.) He walked down a hill, past Hagrid's hut, into a dark forest. The trees oozed hostility, and the blackness echoed the noises of evil creatures. He was going to send word to the Devil – to the monster that haunted Dragon's dreams.

Suddenly a serpent man was before him, with a glare that seared his mind's eye. . . Rows of robed followers stood at attention, his father among them, watching him with Voldemort. . .

Then a bright light forced him to the floor, withering in agony, before Dragon suddenly woke up screaming.

He bolted up and struggled to his feet, except that neither vision nor balance was stable; and when he stumbled and fell again, arms reached out and grabbed him.

From his knees he looked up and saw double – not a x2 double, but like two slides placed on top of each other and held up to the light. The singular image of two young men triggered two tangential sets of memories, but he found himself unable to visualize either of them for fear of being engulfed by one or other. Panic made in hard to think at all, though this lessened at finally making out the looks of concern on the faces. Still, he had to push back the threatening overload and concentrate on the transaction at hand.

The two young men helped him back onto the couch, then he asked suspiciously, "Who are you?"

The tall, freckled redhead spoke up, "I'm is Ron Weasley, and this is Harry Potter."

Only on hearing these names did both worlds snap back into focus and exist together – if only in Draco's mind. It was hard not reel at the staggering revelation, but a instincts kicked in immediately.

_The Weasel. And Harry Potter._

A familiar fit of hate, fear, and jealousy rose up from his gut, and the duo stepped away at the angry expression contorting Draco's normally regal features. A dissimilar, but equally familiar reflex had him grabbing for his Desert Eagle – only to find no gun holstered in the back of his pants.

"Yeah, I thought it might be a good idea to relieve you of this while you were out," Potter explained calmly, removing the gun from the waistband of his own pants. All three teens stared at it intently for a beat, before Potter figured out how to eject the bullet cartridge and it clattered to the floor.

"_You!_" Draco yelled, jumping to his feet and jabbed a finger at Potter. "You interrupted the potion! You're the reason I have to go back there – to that nightmare! You- you knew! Before I took this just now, you knew what you were sending me back to! I can't go back there! I'm going to die! Everyone I care about is going to die!"

Draco was shaking and sweating, and his delirious mind veered away from the pain. Confusion flared up again, shifting attention to . . . Kel. Rob, Pablo. Cars, racing. Life, freedom.

"No, no, nonono," he mumbled, palms pressing painfully into his eyelids, shaking and shaking his head. "That world is dead. This is the one that is real. I've escaped all that, years ago, I ran away. I left that sick bastard, that whole fucking haunted-house world! It was the hardest thing I ever did, and the best. You can't take that away from me, you can't make me go back to- to. . . _that_."

A soft touch on his shoulder sent a pulse of fear and excitement down his spine, and he reluctantly glanced up into sea green eyes. Then, for just a second, he could understand how so many people could give up reason to place their faith and future with this boy-man; but he blinked away even as Harry Potter spoke, "Look, I know you don't believe me, but I want to help you too. I need to get back, no one else can stop Voldmort. And I need you to get me back, obviously, but I'll help you if I can. When we get back, I mean, I'll help you as much as I can."

Dragon didn't want to hear platitudes; he didn't want to be believe in Potter; it just hurt too much. Pride and anger reared up, if only to save himself from an unquantifiable pit of despair. Quickly, he moved away from the two wizards that were watching him as if the fate of the world rested on his shoulders (which it sort of did) and returned to the window he had stood at just a couple of hours ago. . . It felt like days ago. He was no longer the same person, clearly, but part of him didn't even to know who he _had _been. He felt torn between two personalities that had diverged so long ago that they were irreconcilable – except for where they weren't.

Long, tense minutes were spent staring out the window at the weak, constant rain that pelted the gray city. For as long as he had lived in that flat, the view had calmed him, and even now he felt his warring selves retreat as a consensus gradually overwhelmed him: through the pain, the fear, the anger: he had no choice. He could not forsake the world to Voldmort, not in any realm, especially not in one that part of him still felt was his. No part of his conscious truly supported his deep, selfish desire to stay here, where he had made a good life for himself and was happy.

The pain was exquisite. It was not like torture of the mind or body or soul, which is brutal and overwhelming; it was like an orgasm so close it hurt. How could he have come so close to saving himself, only to fail? How could he not have this better life, now that a bit of him had already lived it? Neither Dragon nor Draco had cried real tears in years, yet the pain was so bottomless and complete that a burning lump swelled in his throat, making it hard to breathe, and hot salty water pooled in the corners of his eyes. He wiped them away quickly, then bit his lip and dug his nails into his palms in an attempt to fortify himself. The bitter sarcastic voice of his mind commented, _once more unto the breach, dear friends_.

He turned, steely-eyed, towards Weasley and Potter. Weasley had sat down on the couch, rubbing his eyes and obviously fighting off an intense fatigue, while Potter had taken to leaning tensely against a wall, vigilantly scrutinizing the blonde. What had recently seemed rather impressive to Dragon now just inflamed a restrained hostility that quickly made his apartment unbearably claustrophobic.

This was all bloody Potter's fault.

Drag glanced down at his watch – half past ten. "Okay, Potter, you win. . . again, as always," he gritted out resentfully, before heading towards the door. "I'll do as you have forced me to, just don't expect miracles overnight."

Weasley stood, and Potter strode towards him, wariness etched clearly in expression. "What do you mean?"

Dragon turned the knob and opened the door as he glanced over his should. Merlin, didn't these fools know anything about the _Quareo Tempus_? One would have thought they'd do better research on something this critical. Dragon rolled his eyes, "You total, utter imbecile. The _Quareo Tempus _**creates **alternate timelines that exist aside each other. To get from this one to the original, I – or we rather – have to travel back through all the ones in between."

There was some small satisfaction in seeing Potter's face noticeably sicken, though he scrambled to find his voice as Dragon stepped out the door. "Where are you going?"

Already stomping down the stairs, Malfoy called out, "I'm not going to spend my last night with a pleasurable life cooped up with you lot. I'll see you tomorrow."

And that was the last either Weasley or Potter saw of Dragon Malloy.

! BREAK !

Dragon tried to call Kel, but he only got her voice message – wherever she was, it was probably too loud to hear her phone. The loneliness intensified, and he had to remind himself that it was inevitable; that tomorrow all his friends would be gone, whether or not he said good-bye. So instead of searching the city for Kel and Rob and the gang, he reminisced gently as he forlornly strolled the streets of London. He walked for over an hour before finding himself in front of his garage, where the fondness for his Lamb drove him to enter and climb into his ride. Once settled in the driver's seat, and the door closed, he leaned his head back and just let the bottled fatigue and despondency seep through him. He fell asleep with a doleful pout and heavy eyelids.

! END CHAPTER!

Sorry it took so long guys. I have not abandoned this story, life just got out of control. First my mom and brother came to visit, then my father came to visit, then I went on a road trip. Between that, partying, and starting school again, there really isn't any time to myself. But things are settling down now, and I will give more of my time to finishing this. Anyway, PLEASE REVIEW.


	14. Day Six: Tomorrow & Tomorrow & Tomorrow

Disclaimer: HP & Co. are the intellectual and legal property of JK Rowling, Inc.

Warning: Extremely Adult Content (non-graphic).

READERS! I have a special, inspired Quote of the Day Challenge! See if you can identify the following, chapter-relevant quote! (Answer found at end of chapter.)

"I don't like it here. I'm tired of being afraid all the time. I've decided not to stay."

Now, on with the show:

Ch. 14: Day Six: Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow

Potter's image flashed in his mind's eye.

_Draco_.

Consciousness rushed upon him suddenly and unnaturally, as though yanking him from a static sleep, an effect Draco groggily recognized of _Enervate_. The paralyzed ache in his torso, however, was new, so deep and dull as to be just barely bearable. He opened his eyes, but they couldn't focus on the blurred darkness; instead, he became aware of the sharp pain slicing at his wrists. Regrettably, he recognized this effect too – once the mind has blacked out, the chained iron cuffs dig into the flesh of the hands that now support the weight of the slumped body.

Draco struggled to his feet, straining his weak eyes in the chilly darkness. It felt like a dungeon, and part of the black. . . well, it reflected differently. And there was a pale globe – a head? . . . _Father's _head? Oh Merlin. . . (Wasn't he supposed to be in prison?)

"Draco," the voice barked out unmistakably. "You disappoint me."

Only when his vision cleared did he become aware of the throbbing tenderness that pillowed his face. He tried to speak, to say anything, but all his vocal cords could manage was a heavy groan. (No, Father had not gone to prison, where had he ever got that idea?)

"You. . . _dared_ to plot against our Lord?" Father hissed, this blurred figure stepping closer. "You should have know you would get caught, you pathetic specimen of a pureblood. There is nothing you can do that he has not foreseen. You have disgraced the Malfoy name, and you _will_ be punished. Our Lord is furious with you, and so am I."

Father swung swiftly and struck his walking stick across Draco's neck and check, causing him to cry out and stumble back against the stone wall. "H- how did you know?" he pushed his horse voice to rasp.

Father lunged towards him, slamming Draco's body against the wall, crushing his windpipe with his forearm. "_I _will be asking the questions around here. In fact, I have a few questions to ask you. You see, I know about what you did with Potter."

Draco mustered up a nasty sneer. "I've done a lot with Potter, how am I supposed to know what you're talking about?"

Father growled and lurched forward to greedily bite Draco's lips, eliciting a gasp when he pressed his hard body against his son's. Draco feebly tried to fight Father off in a way he hadn't done in years – if he was going to die anyway, he wasn't going to let _that _happen. "Get off me, you sick fuck," he gasped.

Father shoved him back, skull cracking against the wall again, then purposefully landed several powerful punches to his ribs and that awful, awful, _dead_ part of his abdomen, where he figured the bomb either still was or had been. Father and Nott Sr. had cornered him at the driveway, fifteen minutes before the meeting, and that was all he remembered. They must have knocked him unconscious, but the fact remained that they had known. They had _known_ that he was a threat, and they had known exactly how to neutralize that threat.

Hunched over his beaten torso and strained to raise his head. "Who. . . told you?" he croaked again.

Father glared at him hatefully. "You don't even deny it, do you boy? You were that Potter boy's whore, weren't you?"

Draco said nothing: there was nothing to say that wouldn't antagonize his father. He had let Potter fuck him, quite a few times, and there was no easy answer to why he had let the Boy-Who-Lived use him in a way he had hated when Father had done it. . . and when others had done it. Perhaps he had encouraged Potter because he was a whore, as Father said, or perhaps it was because of his own. . . perverted fantasies.

Draco's mind shunned that line of thought and he forced attention back on Father's spiteful words. ". . . And my, what an excellent whore you must have been, to keep Potter from sleeping soundly for the last five days. Now our Lord knows everything Potter knows."

For the first time since waking, Draco felt a stab of fear. The last five days? That was as long as. . . Potter had said he had been realm-hopping. Had that actually happened, or was it just some pain-induced hallucination? What, exactly, did Father know? "And what, exactly, do you know?" he sneered.

Father leaned his face close. "I know Potter is afraid that, if you die, he will never return to his timeline." He smiled maliciously as Draco closed his eyes in despair.

"So, of course, you're going to kill me," Draco managed to respond blandly, even as a small region of his brain realized that he knew significantly more about the _Tempus Quareo_ than either Father or Potter. Perhaps Severus was the only other that could have realized the error in Father's plan.

Father glanced down at his pocket watch and didn't notice Draco's hidden revelation, continuing, "Of course. But that doesn't mean we can't have a little fun in the mean time. I think we'll start with removing that muggle device from your body."

Draco's eyelids jerked open in sudden panic – he recognized Father's use of first-person plural as an indicator of imminent pain. Even if he hadn't, the merciless eyes and brandished wand were proof enough.

"_Accio _bomb," Father drew out his words firmly.

The last syllable fell from Father's lips, causing Draco's body to spasm and collapse as far down as his chained arms would allow. The consuming dull ache was searing his upper abdomen, tearing at flesh as it continued its pulsing efforts to pierce through the boneless space at the center of the lower ribcage.

"Oh, gods," Draco gritted piteously, arms straining against slicing cuffs in an attempt to wrap protectively around his agonized belly. Nausea forced him to arch his neck back and gag, as he was too weak to adjust his position. After a moment his muffled whimpers erupted into a chocked cry, and the bomb ripped through his skin to fly into Father's hand. "Ha!"

The large wound gushed dark blood in spurts as Draco's body was wracked with suffocating sobs. Father examined the warm, dripping device in his hand, frowning and disdainful; then he turned back towards his son, wand once again in his hand. "_Glaciare_."

Quickly, the pain in Draco's torso became cold and numb and the blood flow slowed to a small trickle. He body still trembled from the shock of the damage, but he managed to gradually ease his desperate gasping into shallow breaths. His eyes managed to focus again on the fierce figure, and his spite defied his crippled body.

"Father. . .," he rasped, blood burbling up slightly on his lip, and Father leaned closer to hear his words. "You drove me to him. He hated fucking me almost as much as you fucking hated me."

A soft, hysterical giggle escaped Draco's mouth and Father's face twisted in rage, and then came the solitary word. . . "_Crucio!_"

For an instant unbearable, agonizing pain seized him; then he was flung into unconsciousness.

! BREAK !

Harry was panicking. It was Sunday, so he was blessed not to have to conceal his agitation during class. Instead, he found himself pacing the rocky enclave at the Lake's shore – where his new understanding of Draco Malfoy had begun. Ron and Hermione hadn't been too difficult to escape after a rude welcome this morning.

Harry didn't give a fuck about etiquette. Something was horribly wrong, he could feel it. Malfoy's kamikaze mission had failed and Draco was is a horrible horrible pain. . . Harry could sense it on the periphery of his perception, and it was unbearable. He felt desperate and useless and frantic. What was happening to Malfoy? What would happen to _him_ if Malfoy died in this timeline?

Oh, god, Malfoy. . .

On a whim he sat Indian style on the rocky ground, facing the Lake. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind like Snape had taught him; he allowed himself to still and calm, until outside sources of unrest became obvious. . .

_Draco._

! BREAK !

Potter's image flashed though his mind's eye. Green eyes pleaded and a firm expression promised. . .

Again, he awoke abruptly and artificially, suddenly back in the world of pain. Instinct reacted with a rush of fear and panic, and his eyes flew open to make out Father before even being able to focus. The Malfoy patriarch had conjured an elegant wooden chair and sitting there stiffly, motionlessly, with his wand held casually on his knee.

"Draco." His voice was almost soothing, and calmed Draco despite all logic. "Here, drink this, it will help."

He reached into his robes and withdrew a vial of clear liquid. Draco hung lifelessly from his arm chains, knees on the cool stone floor: it was difficult to breathe, let alone resist when a firm hand cusped the back of his head and held him up to drink of the vial placed at his bruised lips. Just a taste –

It tasted like water, laced with a mild healing potion. Oh god, it tasted good!

He lapped at it greedily, and in seconds it was gone. He was left disappointed and unsatisfied, the agony all the worse for being more bearable. "Father," he moaned in pain.

Then Father was down on his knees too, very unMalfoyish; but he brought his body intimately against his son's, gathering some of the boy's weight in his arms and bringing their faces close. Draco felt warm air on his lips, warmth along his front, and a momentary respite; his eyes flutter shut and he sighed gently.

Father kissed him delicately, lovingly, and Draco _really wanted_ to believe that what was happening was real, even though it wasn't. Father made love to him sometimes, more frequently when he younger, but Father had never loved him.

"Is this how Potter got into your pants?" Father whispered huskily.

Unbidden, the truth spilled form his lips, "No."

Father ran his tongue across Draco's cheek to his ear. "No? How, then, did it happen?"

"The other way," Draco's thoughts spoke aloud, in a manner that inspired him to a sudden a realization.

Father's grip tightened painfully on the back of Draco's head, yanking at sweat and blood matted locks. "What other way?" he demanded.

But Draco had recognized the affects of the _Veritaserum_, and he desperately strangled off the worls that tried to escape. Panic and fear swelled again, closing his throat and choking him. He tried to push Father off, but he was chained and too weak anyway, and Father clutched him firmly. Then, when the heaving stopped and he managed to breathe, the words finally slipped out with his defeated exhalation. "You know the other way, Father. Hard and merciless."

Father's fingers tightened around the back of his neck, then released him as Father drew suddenly away and sat back on his chair. "I knew you liked it," he continued after a moment, his tone arrogant and disdainful. "You've always enjoyed it, haven't you?"

Draco's eyes glazed over for a moment, in an act that he naturally substituted for tears, but he remained immobile. A frigid mechanical part of his brain was grappling with the question, and it provoked reactions from this temporarily pain-stunned emotions. Anger; at what that bastard had done from him, and taken from him. Rage; a genuine desire to kill and take bloody revenge. . . Hate; I HATE HIM. HATE HATE HATE.

His mind peeled away from that abyss of darkness and desperation.

Love. Draco had loved, and still loved, his father. How could he not? Father was the strong, powerful head of the family. Everyone respected him and he had everything. If he was inappropriately close at times, it was only to make up for his usually great distance – so that Draco coveted his attention. And Father had taken pains to pleasure him, however perversely, when he was younger. Even when he was older, when the gender games stopped and the pain games started: it got more fucked up, but there had still been some twisted pleasure. Almost as though he had _relished _the pain. It was undeniable, and he could almost feel the influence Father was probably magically projecting. This was the part of the truth that Father wanted to hear.

"Yes, I've always enjoyed it," he admitted emotionlessly, finding it impossible to sink any farther than total defeat.

Father's smirk held both disgust and malice, and a timeless element of Draco still couldn't understand how Father could be so cruel to him. Did He feel nothing for his only child? Draco felt so deeply, how could He not?

Then Father's wand was brandished again and Draco felt the shackles unlock from his wrists and ankles. He fell forward, barely managing to save his face from nose-diving into the stone. Movement renewed the punishing hurt that inhabited his body.

"Goyle!" Father barked sharply, causing Draco to shudder as he wrestled with controlling the pain. There was no denying that the situation would only get worse once Goyle entered the picture.

The dungeon door scraped open and Goyle Sr lumbered in. He paused for a moment, then moved towards Draco and grabbed his upper arm, just as Father gripped his other arm, and the two hauled him to his feet.

Father turned his head to look at him and shoothim a devil's smirk. "It's time. The Dark Lord wants a word with you."

Desolation was the only word for it. "Father. . . "

But his weak protest was ignored, and the two strong men promptly dragged him out of the door. Draco struggled to make his feet work, even as he was lugged down one hall, and then another, to Father's study. A familiar, sickening pit of dread swelled in his belly, superimposing itself over the numb wound, and he swallowed awkwardly as Father rapped upon the polished oak door.

He made a final effort to stand and pulled himself up in time to stumble into the study.

Where Voldemort sat angularly on Father's leather sofa, looking up unpleasantly from the fireplace. The back of another Death Eater could be made out watching out the window.

"Ahhh, Draco," the Dark Lord hissed dangerously, wasting no time.

Draco tried to hold himself up with some dignity, but he knew it was just for show. He had been tortured, and now he was going to die. What did he expect? He had betrayed his family's name and following; he had slept with Voldemort's personal enemy and had made a most ambitious assassination attempt. He had known it was extremely risky behavior, but so what? It's not risky behavior if nothing of worth is being jeopardized. An explosive and murderous end would have been ideal, but he would just have to settle for being executed with a 'Fuck You' on his lips.

Besides. if his gut was right, and his outrageous memory was genuine, then all the better: he could be a martyr and still live to fight another day. But he did not betray his thoughts, even under Voldemort's scrutiny – the monster seemed to be operating under the wishful assumption that killing him would somehow foil Potter's plans. And who knows, maybe it would; after all, the _Quareo Tempus_ was unknown territory, and all Draco had to go on was rather convoluted temporal quantum theory.

The Lord of Horror soon grew angry at the younger Malfoy's baffling ability to elude his aggressing mind, quickly changing tactics and stabbing his wand at him. "_Crucio!_"

Draco was in no condition to fight off the agony that again seized his body: he immediately fell to the floor and cried out excruciatingly. After a moment, his experience of time became unfixed and the pain simply pulsed distantly through him, and his mind seemed to detach and float away, slowly flowing towards a haven, towards comfort and safety, and. . .

Potter. Potter, clear and alive and present. . .

_Draco. Listen to me. Hold on. I'll come get you._

NO! Don't do that!

_I have to! I can't let you die!_

Yes, you can. I'll see you tomorrow.

There was silence. Draco's mind began to drift back, and the pain started seeping in from the horizon. At the frontier of consciousness, a voice replied –

Tomorrow then. 

Draco jerked alive, heaving bonelessly on the floor: the Unforgivable had been lifted, but there seemed to be very little left. Just a vague sense of regret. A wish to have made different choices and to have ended differently. Because Harry Potter was nothing if not Hope.

And in the end, that was enough.

"_Avada Kadavra_."

Death was bright green and abrupt, but otherwise painless.

! END OF CHAPTER !

PLEASE REVIEW. To those of curiosity, the opening quote is of ex-inmate Brooks (from _Shawshank Redemption_), commenting on life outside prison.


	15. Day Seven: Prison of the Mind

Disclaimer: Not mine!

THANKS FOR YOUR REVIEWS AND READERSHIP.

Chapter 15: Day Seven: Prison of the Mind

In Azkaban, time does not pass as it does elsewhere. There are no windows, only smooth grey walls, and a single wooden door with a barred window from which pours a faint glow of magical firelight. The only measure of time is the biweekly hour of exercise in the prison yard, and the biweekly hose-down in a shower room. The other three hundred and thirty four hours are spent in a sensory-depriving, mind-numbing cell, with food and water coming intermittently, and a gaping shaft for a toilet.

The Dementors had disappeared one day, _revolted_ the voices whispered, but it hardly mattered. Azkaban, the Hole to its inhabitants, has a terrible magic of its own, and Draco Malfoy had lived for so many years within its walls, and at the mercy of the Dementors, that by the time the latter left, the madness of memories had long since taken residence in his mind. He'd been there for just over four years, but he couldn't have told anyone that: it had been a private eternity. Haunting dreams smoothly faded in and out with a hallucinogenic reality, so that there was no rest or respite; and nightmares, memories, and consciousness fused to the point that they were difficult to distinguish.

Father floated in and out of daily life, as did Mother and Lord Voldemort and, sometimes, Harry Potter; and warped public scenes in which he was surrounded by the frightening observation of his peers, the horror of his audience, and the distain of the court.

"Ahhh!" he screamed out spontaneously, meaninglessly and a muffled echo resounded. Such exclamations were normal enough occurrences in the Azkaban corridors, and it drew no attention from the prison guards. Draco simply rolled over and sat up, eyes staring blankly and almost as dead awake as when asleep. He stood, if only to habitually stretch atrophied muscles, and began slowly pacing the cell confines: nothing in prison was hurried, not when it could be prolonged and milked of all potential for passing time. Even horrors had the value of being able holding attention, and just like that Draco made peace with his mind's occupation with its own anguish. There was so much to agonize over. . .

Father haunted him and sickened him, driving him to self-destructive depression and crazed rages. Horrific, sometimes erotic memories played out, causing him to cry and hurt himself.

As a child, Father had come to him sometimes at night; Draco know when it would happen, because he was always instructed to take tea after dinner so that he would be strongly sedated hours later. Then, Father did perverse thing to him, lovingly, at godless hours of the night. His favorite ritual was to cast a spell that suddenly and arousingly developed ripe breasts on his child's figure. It was appalling, no doubt, and Draco had hated it when Father tenderly raped pleasure from his drugged body as though he was a woman.

Ah, but sometimes he fancied that he missed those perfect breasts: they would have been handy in prison anyway, if only to entertain himself. In another life he'd have been amused at his own wit, but humor did not exist in the Hole. There were other diverting activities though.

Draco strolled up to the door and pressed his face up against the small window bars. "Hey!" he cackled loudly and obnoxiously. "Death Eater!"

After a long moment, he inhaled deeply before bellowing, "I SAID, HEY! DEATH EATER SCUM!"

Sound does not travel well through the thick corridors of Azkaban, but Draco could just hear the weak and predictable sound of cursing from the cell next to his. Dolohov had only been on the inside for a year and already he was raving mad, far further along than Draco himself; but then again, he came after the Dementors had left, and who knows what terror the Ministry was inflicting upon new inmates. Or maybe the Aurors had messed him up even before he got to the Hole.

Either way, Draco had no sympathy for Death Eaters.

"Dolohov! I know what you are, everyone does, God knows!" Draco hissed viciously. "Dolohov! You're a Death Eater! You're a monster! Your name will be reviled forever! And you will not go to heaven! You will rot in here for fifty years, then you will go to Hell!"

Draco smirked at hearing a sob escape from the other cell – then came the crazed wail, and more of the inevitable cursing, "You scheming fucking devil! What do you want of me? Just leave me alone! I'll kill you I will!"

Ha, what a ponce. "No, Dolohov, you are _mine_."

"Damn you, you fiend, leave me be! Stop haunting me! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. . . You don't even exist. You are nothing, just air. . ." An eyebrow arched up on Draco's face: Dolohov never exhausted himself this quickly, he could usually rant for whole minutes. And minutes are a long time in the Hole. . .

A second wind, "I'll hunt you down and kill you! I've done it before! I'll kill your family! You bastard son of an ungodly whore! Your mother is-"

"YOU better not say anything more about my mother, or I will make sure that your time here is a _special_ kind of hell, you worthless piece of shit!" Draco spat, suddenly not in the mood for this game with Dolohov. He had no family for Dolohov to hunt down and kill, for he had murdered his own father.

After a long pause, he said his farewell to Dolohov. "_Avada Kadavra_."

It was satisfying to hear the scum whimper.

! BREAK !

As for Mother: well, there is not much to say.

Mother had outwardly demonstrated her affections for her husband and son and life in general, but she had rarely been present in Draco's life. She was in and out of the Manor more than even Father, for she always had some place else to be, and someone else to be with. Draco barely noticed; after all, it was hard to miss what he had never had, and besides, there was Nanny and Teacher and sometimes Father around to fill the adult rolls.

Still, her constant absence made his few memories of her all the more unforgettable, and one sequence haunted him frequently. . .

Malfoy Manner employed several wizarding individuals and families. Butlers, caretakers, stablesmen, nannies, and cooks were all necessary supplements to the small strike force of house-elves. When Draco was eight, his nanny was a smart, thirty-something cutie married to the Games Keeper, and mother to one Jeziah Clockwork.

Young Draco had only ever met a few other children in his entire life, chiefly during play dates with the Malfoy family allies; but in Jeziah Clockwork there was someone his age with whom he could have some recurring contact, given that they lived within the same walls. For even then, there had always been walls. . .

He talked to her sometimes in the kitchen when they happened to meet – it was her haunt, and he 'stopped by' just to encounter her. Once, they ran into each other out in the lawns and chased after one another; for Jeziah it was natural, but for Draco it was new and exciting and _fun_. Over the years, he arranged for a few Quidditch one-on-ones, and they were the highlights of his short lifespan. Then, one day, sitting again in the kitchen, Draco leaned over and kissed her one the cheek.

She jumped away and looked at him with fear and disgust. "I can't kiss you!" she exclaimed.

There was a stunned silence before she grew embarassed and soothed. "Mama says that snakes can't kiss people, silly. Snakes don't kiss like that."

Draco was hurt and confused. A snake? Yeah, there were a lot of emblems and figures of serpents around the Manner, but that didn't make him a snake, did it? It didn't make sense, but he was well aware that he was in the dark about a great deal of the world. His parents made it blatantly obvious that he knew nothing.

That night, after a customary dinner, he dared approach his mother as he brushed her hair in the dressing room. He peaked through her cracked door to see her sitting calmly before her mirror. "Mother."

She turned, elegant and pale and beautiful as always, and she smiled at him. "Draco, baby, come in."

Draco entered quietly and took up a stand Mother's shoulder; she returned to the task of her long hair. "Is something bothering you, my son?"

There were so many things bothering him, eating away at this soul and childhood, but there was nothing he thought his mother could help him with – except one thing; this one thing that seemed to fall right into Mother's narrow territory. "Yes, Mother. There is something I want to ask you."

"If I know, I will answer you," Mother replied without missing a beat.

After a conspicuous silence, Draco bashfully forced himself to ask, "Mother. how do snakes kiss?"

Mother's graceful eyebrows rose slightly in surprise, and she put down her brush, maternally sensing the background to the question. She turned, placing her hands on his shoulders, and searched his eyes.

"Is this about that Clockwork girl?" she finally inquired; no one could ever accuse Narcissa Malfoy of not being perceptive.

"No!" her young son denied pathetically. "I just want to know. Why won't you ever tell me anything?"

Mother moved her hands to gently caress a few of his soft locks of hair. "Like this, sweetie," she whispered, leaning her face close so that their cheeks almost touched. Then she kissed the air near his ear and withdrew in an instant to return to her image in the mirror. "That is how we snakes kiss, Draco. It's safer this ways."

She said nothing more after that, and Draco knew the conversation was over. He had asked for the adult's truth, and he had got it, so he withdrew to his spacious bedroom and his own claustrophobic thoughts.

The Clockwork family was dismissed; and then, in a couple more years, Father would show him yet another way in which snakes kiss – fast strikes with sharp fangs, and Draco would pretend that those fangs belonged to someone else. . .

Draco gasped and his eyes suddenly focused: had he been asleep or merely thinking? Either way, his attention had been alerted by the scrape of a plate being slid through a narrow, flapped slit at the bottom of the door. It was odorless, as always, and almost certainly as stone-cold.

He sluggishly approached the thin plate to recognize the standard gruel, no utensil. Unfailingly, he slurped up the meal, victim of an inexplicable reluctance to die. Sometimes, the ghosts didn't seem to be that bad of company – for all their pain, they came without consequence, and that was a saving relief.

Even Voldemort meant nothing within the mad incarcerating walls of Azkaban, in spite of the hours He spent plaguing Malfoy, Dolohov, and numerous other convicts. He tortured and destroyed minds every night, but it wasn't anything that hadn't been immeasurably worse when these prisoners had actually lived through it.

He sat on the floor in front of the door, and began a practiced scooping of the gruel out from the plate and then holding it high so that any drippage fell into his mouth instead of the stone slabs. Dim light fell from the barred door window, landing on his forearms and framing the contrast between the flawless white skin of one are and the abhorrent black mark on the other.

The hideous skull hypnotized him, as though coming to life, and the dark power that pulsed just below the surface shot a tremor through his slight body – an unnecessary reminder of the Dark Lord's constant presence.

"_Draco_," hissed the voice, and Draco's head jerked up to stare into the light. . .

Voldemort glared at him in all of his malevolence, as Draco stood tall within a ring of masked Death Eaters. Father was in prison, and now he was to get the Mark. He did it even though he knew the Dark Lord held him ill will because of Lucius' failures; but he feared for his life, and for Mother's, and for his friends. He had no choice.

He kneeled before the Dark Lord and held out his bare forearm. "My life and loyalty are yours, my Lord."

Voldemort glowered menacingly down at him, wand proffered. "I accept you into my service," he said inhumanly. "You should hope to prove more competent than your father."

Fear, anger, and humiliation stung at him, but still he groveled. "Yes, my Lord."

The gnarly wand was lowered to his wrist, and magic spoken – the burning pain!

He bit his lip hard and struggled not to cry out though he could not feel his arm or hand through the seering agony! It was almost a good thing, as his arm was paralyzed while the Dark Mark was being tattooed on. And even through the consuming pain, he could see the hideousness of the branding.

Then it was abruptly over and he was allowed a moment on his hands and knees before briskly standing and composing himself under t he cruel gazes of the hooded masses. This was it, he was a Death Eater now, and he would make the best of it. . .

But Draco the prisoner did not respond so calmly; he was too filled with hatred and rage! "Cursed be fucking Voldemort!" he cried suddenly, struggling to his feet. "How dare you brand ME!"

Seeing double, he ran at the door, only to inevitably slam painfully to the floor; but he did not stop, he beat at the oak wood with his fists and screamed incomprehensible obscenities. Sweaty tears stole down his face, and blood swelled on his fists, but he couldn't stop – he was hysterical, completely possessed by an adrenaline rage.

There was no other word for it than the most primal HATE. He hated Voldemort, and Father, and Jetziah Clockwork, and Death Eaters, and bloody Harry Potter, and himself, and his whole sad sorry fucking life; and if breaking himself against their walls was the only way to show it, then so be it.

! BREAK !

Except that he didn't have a Dark Mark, and he wasn't a Death Eater. Father wasn't in prison, he was dead, and Draco was in the Hole. It would seem that his imagination was proving provocatively perverse today, he thought as he lay on his bare bunk, body achingly sore from its earlier attack of his cell's walls. What had gotten into him? Since the Dementors had left, his madness had grown more peaceful, but then recently the waters had begun to rock again. How had his vision possessed him so? It had felt so achingly real. . .

A world not of a solitary room and an empty future, but of intrigue and double dealing; it was not inviting, but anything was better than Azkaban. Besides, he had a comfortable feeling about it. It felt familiar, like what home should feel like. . . and like Harry Potter.

What was wrong with him? Did he purposely invoke Harry Potter because he _wanted_ to think about him!

And, of course, Father tainted everything, even Harry Potter. By the time Draco was ten, Father had progressed from tender seduction to rough sexual attacks; but the latter proved more difficult to reconcile with Draco's cherished conviction that Father did indeed love him. When he started at Hogwarts, he got some respite from visits, and he met and acquired an enemy in the one and only Harry Potter. When he returned to the Manor, it was easier to let his imagination free to pretend he was being raped by someone who hated him and was his enemy, and not by a parent that was everything to him.

For years those had been haunting memories; but in the mean time he had savagely murdered Father, been sent to Azkaban, and grown into a frail young man of sixteen. Nothing might have ever changed, except that everything was upset when the Dementors left, and a shift came over the prison. Things long considered dead began to slowly wake new, and so that, for Draco, the familiar nightmare began to elicit disturbing unfamiliar responses.

He focused less on it being Father and more on pretending that it was Potter – that it was Potter throwing him down on tables and floors and against walls, grabbing and strangling and hurting him, spreading his cheeks and taking him, and pounding so hard until both of them screamed release. . . Except that this time when he remembered it, Harry Potter wasn't the eleven year old of his childhood memories; instead, he was taller, probably Draco's current age. How should he know what Potter looked like these days?

Draco whimpered as arousal prickled though his skin and groin, and he briefly anguished over whether he was willing to touch himself. It disgusted and shamed him, but the prospect of feeling anything good was undeniably tempting after so long in deep despair. So he stilled, body tense, and lowered his hand to his tattered cotton pants. He forced himself to breathe and tried to relax in the tantalizing pressure; when he cautiously started to rub himself, and it became easier. His other hand found chest, where Father had used to grow breasts, and pinched a nipple.

His mind elicited the image of Harry Potter and he shivered, his touch tightening around his hard-on. His body felt heavy, but his soul almost forgot that he wasn't free; his skin tingled and his muscles clenched.

"Oh, gods," he muffled.

_. . .Draco_.

And then he climaxed; body frozen and any cry he might have made completely silenced. After a moment, he let himself inhale deeply and only tranquility remained.

_Draco_.

Fuck. The last thing Draco needed was more voices. . . except, it was Harry Potter, and Draco certainly wouldn't be the first to indulge a fantasy of the Boy-Who-Lived. . .

. . . Harry?

_Draco, we've got to keep going back, we're not there yet._

Draco's mind twirled over his words, but he couldn't make out what Potter was on about, and confusion began to panic his mind –

I don't understand!

_The other timeline, you git, where you're not in prison. How can you not remember?_

But that was exactly the problem, Draco remembered all sorts of things, he just had little ability to distinguish memory from madness. He stopped focusing on the stone wall adjacent his bunk and closed his eyes, allowing his experience spin –

Draco, this is real! I'm gonna get you out of this mess! But you have to want to go back home! I know you remember me, Malfoy!

! BREAK !

Draco remembers now: both Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. Typically, he is the villain, and his life is a mess, but anything is better than Azkaban; and well, yesterday when he _died_. . .

Draco stood from his bunk and rushed to his door; then, peering closing through the bars, he howled in frustration and relief, and a couple tortured kindred cried back. Maybe Dolohov was one of them.

Fine, he thought, twisting around and staring into the darkness of his cell. He would listen to the voices. He hated to, but they were so hopelessly right all the time, And this time the price was so low – only to want to be there instead of here. There's not much skin of anyone's nose, is it?

! END OF CHAPTER !

Hope you liked. PLEASE REVIEW. I know it was a little wonky, it came out like that, so I just let it. Comments would be great!


	16. Day 8: Who R U & What Have U Done w HP?

Disclaimer: No, still not mine.

Your readership is appreciated. You reviews are even more appreciated. SORRY it took so long to post, I am super busy with school, school work, and 2 jobs. Add in sleeping, a bit of socializing, and a little tickle with the bf, and there really isn't much time for anything else. Anyway, the reward for your patience is an extra-long chappy!

Chapter 16: Day Eight: Who Are You, and What Have You Done with Harry Potter?

For Harry, the last two days had been worse than the five previous – at least then he had had something to do. Racing around stressed, meeting with Snape and Dumbledore, plotting with Ron and Hermione. . . it was better than just _waiting_, trying and itching to connect with a distant Draco, fearing for the Slytherin's life while attending unbearable classes, and hoping that tomorrow he would wake up a day closer to home. He was eagerly looking forward to being in a universe where he could talk and interact (he tried to keep his mind out of the gutter) with Draco, and was awake thinking, trying to _sense_ the him, long before the alarm went off.

_Beepbeep. Beepbeep. Beepbeep. BEEEP!_

"YAAAWAAAGHHH!" Bloody Finnegan, Harry thought fondly; he was in a good mood, and was anticipating the day. He bounded out of bed a second ahead of Seamus and was on his way to the bathroom for a shower in time to hear Ron's half-hearted, "Die, Irish swine, die. . ."

A quick shower, then he dressed and went down to the common room, where he convinced Hermione to leave for the Great Hall without their redhead friend. They conversed idly over breakfast, and Harry tried to pretend he was the _other_ Harry, which was easier the second time around – at least he was aware of this reality's basic facts. He'd figured out over the last two days that his friends remembered the interactions they had had with him when he had infiltrated their timeline. When he'd left, the other Harry Potters had returned without any memory of the lost day; then when he had came through on the way back, the other Hermiones and Rons helped him figure this out. This time, however, he was going to try passing off as his other self. Over the last two days of worry, he had had plenty of time to curiously dwell upon his other manifestations. His other self had sex with Malfoy too! More than once, in fact, and in more than one timeline! It was completely out of character, and yet he felt the attraction; and, even worse, the _feelings_ –

Uh oh, Hermione was slyly evaluating him; it would not be easy to keep up the act when confronted with her scrutiny. Harry smiled with affection, then glanced habitually at Malfoy's seat at the Slytherin table: it was empty, as it had been the last eight times he had checked. So he went back to his meal, and eventually Ron, Neville, and Ginny showed up to eat and gab.

When they left for Tuesday's double Advance Potions, he remembered his last visit to this timeline, when Malfoy's late-night 'activities' and morning 'medications' prevented him from showing his anorexic face in public until late second period. Irritation, jealousy, and sympathy warred for the walk to class, but then everything was sucked into the misery that was Potions.

! BREAK !

Draco grazed consciousness, stretching slightly and snuggling a pillow – this was the best feeling in the world, knowing you are asleep, and enjoying it, and not having to be awake. His body ached in a delectable way, and he inhaled the sent of the pillow deeply. It smelt like him, and a little like Pansy, and it was comforting. In this in-between state his drowsy mind drifted through other, fanciful lives in which he was someone else entirely. . .

Eventually dreams faded away into oblivion, to be forgotten completely, and he roused himself, sitting up and observing the twisted sheets and the empty dorm room. Again, he'd been left to oversleep and show up to class hours late, not that he cared. Besides, he desperately needed the Zs. And now, moments after waking, there was something else he needed, something he was already craving, something unidentifiable –

Unidentifiable?

He was an addict, how could his habit suddenly seem so foreign and disgusting?

Draco struggled to his feet and rushed to the bathrooms. A quick shower, and a few minutes with the tooth and hair brushes finally allowed him to confront the day. He tried out a few faces in the mirror, but he saw nothing that pleased him: he knew he was attractive, but that didn't stop him from hating his fuck-me eyes and his blow-job lips and his bloody girly looks. He knew it was his scant weight that made him so appear so feminine – well, that and the blond hair that fell to his shoulders – but he had long ago ceased to tailor himself to his own wants.

"Woe be to me," the mirror started androgynously. "That I am not beloved of Aphrodite. None are so loverly as thee. Whether a he or she, methinks she does like me."

Draco quickly tugged his hair back and harshly tied it, scowling at the mirror. He was not in a good mood anyway, and his _need_ was grating on his nerves; the last thing he wanted was to be hit on by Andy the Mirror's bad poetry. "Fuck off, you cunt."

He left the bathroom and half-heartedly gathered a few items for class, but when he started for the door he immediately stopped. What was wrong with him today? Did he honestly think he could make it through the morning without _anything_? He knew he couldn't, and he had long ago stopped trying to fight it.

Relief and resignation flowed through him, and he raised the wand towards his jaw to utter the familiar ritual, "_Placidus Mundus. . . Stolidus . . . Corroboro_."

The high enveloped him and it was perfect. The world slowed down, his body picked up, memory blanked, and his senses became more aware. Feeling stilled and everything just relaxed. . .

! BREAK !

It was a miracle that he made it to class as early as 11 AM, just in time to be late to for Advanced Runes. Draco showed up looking immaculate, if effete, and was immediately confronted by the stares of his already seated classmates and his displeased professor. "I apologize, sir," he said reflexively. "I'll just go take a seat."

The professor nodded curtly; no one approved of Draco Malfoy's behavior, but no one could do anything about it. Pity and, before he was imprisoned, a fear of Lucius Malfoy allowed him to stay at Hogwarts, but the sad fact of the matter was that there was no recovering from a childhood magic addiction. It shaped the physiology of the brain as much as it did the psyche, with magical barriers and mechanisms in the place of natural mental barriers and mechanisms.

Draco floated through the period on a wondering imagination, eyes dully skirting over his classmates, vaguely pondering who the hell the charades that sat around him as if all was right with the world. Pansy, Boot, Blaise, the Patil twins, so many others. . . Potter; and, if he really wanted to dig through his secrets, Father. Who were _these _people and who did they pretend to be? Then, after a while, he didn't think about anything, but stared vacantly at Snape, a clouded mind easily to fading into vacancy.

After Ad Runes, he trailed after this Slytherin housemates to lunch in the Great Hall. No one really talked to him, but no one really excluded them either – after all, he was the house whore, someone few were willing to estrange. The chicken on his plate wasn't too appetizing, and Nott's hand on his thigh was definitelydisagreeable: he was never _that_ desperate until some time after midnight. He shoved Theodore's hand away and capriciously glanced over at the Gryffindor table.

Harry Potter was looking straight at him!

The Gryffindor's expression was urgent and meaningful, and his gaze prompted Draco's stomach to clench nauseously. He forced himself to turn his attention to his food, but as usual the spells had completely drained him of his appetite. He just wanted to get through the rest of his classes so that he would be released to find whatever peace there was to be found.

After lunch was Charms, and as he performed his usual poor attempts, he could feel Harry Potter's eyes on him. The other boy should have been easier to ignore, but a foreign nervousness tinkled though his body and made it difficult to achieve his customary state of disconnection. It was almost as if he had forgotten exactly how to be himself, and he irritably sneaked another glance.

Now Potter was frowning at him! What was with that cunt anyway? Acting all weird and running away last week, then pretending nothing happened and shagging the very next day, and now the sudden interest?

Then, in double Ad Trans, the Golden Boy purposely took the seat next him during double Ad Trans – his posse didn't seem to pleased, but there were hardly any other seats by the time they walked in. Draco sat, frozen immobile, and stared unwaveringly at the professor.

Sitting in the back was a better opportunity to whisper undetected, even in McGonagall's class, and Harry soon took advantage of that fact. "Draco."

Draco's gaze didn't falter and his expression remained impassive, but curiosity begged some response, "What?"

"How're you holding up?"

Draco's eyes flickered over to catch Potter's concerned frown, certainly not expecting chitchat from him. "Just peachy."

There was a pause in which Draco managed to tune back into McGonagall's lecture for about half a minute before Potter pestered him again. "How was Azkaban?"

This time Draco jerked his head around to glare at Potter. " What the fuck? Is that supposed to be some sick joke about my father?" he hissed.

Potter was taken aback somewhat, but he quickly changed tactics and whispered, "You don't remember, I'm sorry. I just- just need to talk to you after class."

Draco was growing irritated, and he didn't try to deny it. All he wanted for this nightmare to end so he could find some relief in oblivion; instead, he was still at his desk, jittery as hell, and Harry fucking Potter wanted to keep him away even longer! "Bugger off, Potter. I'm not doing anything with you after class."

But Potter just looked at him appraisingly, with a mysterious, almost tender expression on his face, as if he saw through all of Draco's masks and walls. Then the bastard leaned in close onto blonde's desk, uncomfortably far into his personal space. "It's okay, Draco," he soothed. "I know what you're going to do, and, well, uh, you don't have to hide it from me. I just. . . really need to talk to you, and you really need to listen to me."

Draco was dumbfounded: Harry Potter was completely off his rocker! Draco had never seen him like this, not even that evening days ago. Still, his interest was piqued. He wondered what Potter so desperately had to say to him; no one ever really _wanted_ to talk to Draco, as there tended to be little need for conversation during his encounters with the other students. . . Besides, maybe Potter was up for more than just words – a little magic, pain, and/or sex was always a welcome diversion.

"Fine," he whispered at last, promptly turning his eyes to where McGonagall was demonstrating the transfiguration of a quill into a garden snake. Potter leaned back into his own space and didn't bother Draco for the rest of the class, though Draco noticed the Gryffindor's gaze and attention drift his way several times. Then Draco found it difficult to focus on anything other than the familiar vibrating headache that always developed when class kept him away from self-medicating for too long. With trembling hands he packed up his bag before McGonagall even dismissed them, then he shot out of his seat when she finally did.

Draco hurried out of the classroom, with Potter on his trail (much to the confusion of Ron and Hermione) – through two corridors, navigating the student throngs, then up several flights of stairs towards the Astronomy Tower. On the Hogwart's highest turret, Draco entered one of the observation rooms, all of which were usually empty at this time, being that classes had just ended and the horny teens tended not to come until later. Potter followed him, briefly glancing around the bare room before resting his eyes on the Slytherin's taunt back.

"Lock the door," Draco directed clearly.

Potter muttered a quick spell then turned back: Draco had turned around and was watching him with a faint smirk and a slightly raised eyebrow. Now that he was seconds away from relief, urgency faded and gave way to a distinctly pleased calm. He was finally free to cast spells on himself until his wand fell from his fingers, and a little company in the form of the Boy-Who-Lived could be just the right seasoning!

"Would you like to do the honors?" Draco teased. Potter appeared confused for a moment, but caught on immediately when Draco glanced pointedly at his wand.

"Uh. I don't really know any spells that you'd like," Potter stuttered uneasily. It was almost cute, except that it completely out of character and a daft thing to say anyway!

Draco just rolled his eyes, but was smiling seductively as he began to get into the whole situation. "It doesn't take a genius, almost anything will do. What spell do you want to use? I'll show you how," he purred.

Potter frowned ambivalently and shuffled on his feet for a moment, his watch never leaving Draco's face. The Gryffindor was wrestling with maelstrom of feelings that suggested and forbade every course of action. Finally, he nodded uncertainly. "Okay. . . what spells are there?"

Draco slowly started crossing the room towards his companion, twirling the wand in his fingers. "Well, _Corroboro_ is always a favorite, whatever can give the energy to get through the day right?"

Potter didn't respond, but Draco didn't need one – just talking about the spells was fulfilling some primal aspect of his addiction. "_Placidus Mundus_. That's an excellent one. It make the whole world peaceful, like it slows down, you know? It's the easiest to cast, just flick your hand like your doing _Accio_. And then there's _Subo_, that makes you feel all sexy and horny-"

"Yes, I recognize that last one from a week ago when you cast it on _me_," Potter interrupted forcefully.

Very close now, Draco just shrugged and whispered huskily. "Yeah, well, why don't you return the favor then?"

Malfoy's face grew near, warm breath caressing Harry's cheek and causing him to pull away slightly. Sure, he wanted to kiss the waiflike boy; but he also abhorred the idea, because of all the Draco Malfoys that he had met, this one was the least recognizable as the nemesis he had grown up with. What happened to him that he had become _this_?

Irritation crept onto Draco's face, prompting Potter to pick his response and run with it. He raised his wand to the Slytherin, who immediately backed away. Draco sunk to his knees, eyes closed and head bowed to receive the spell as though it were a blessing. Harry observed him sadly for a moment before flicking his wand perfectly and articulating, "_Placidus Mundus_."

Draco sighed deeply and Harry watched the tension drain from his muscles and his body sag into relaxation. After a long still moment, Draco's doe eyes opened wide and dilated pupils lingered on the Gryffindor's solid form. Once overwhelming peripheral stimuli waned so all that was left were glaring testaments of observation. "Potter. . ."

"Draco," the Boy-Who-Lived returned hesitantly.

Draco unsteadily got to his feet and stood comfortably, head slightly tilted back to look down at the other boy, pondering the evidence before him. "You've changed," he said finally. "You've been acting strange recently."

"Yeah, that's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about."

"By all means then, explain yourself," Draco agreed, purposely putting Potter on the spot.

Potter looked at him poignantly, as though trying to communicate some indecipherable meaning. "Well, it's kind of hard to explain. You probably wouldn't believe me unless I showed you."

With those words, Draco regretfully recognized a familiar pattern in the 'changed' Potter, and he feared the response when he asked, "What do you want to show me?"

Harry heard the ice in the other boy's voice, but he couldn't let this moment slip away, so he stepped closer. When Draco showed no reaction at all, Harry wrapped an arm around his wasted and pulled him close, his other hand brushing a pale cheek. The blonde tensed, but Harry continued, "I want to show you that things are not supposed to be like this, how they're supposed to be. I think, when you see it, you'll be glad. Just let me use Legimancy, you'll see –"

"Like you did last week?" Draco accused, pulling away from Harry; but he did not move far, and waited for a response. Ultimately, there was little behavior Draco would characterize as unacceptable. Even if Potter wanted to rip open his brain and fuck his gray matter, Draco probably wouldn't have objected for more than a few seconds.

"Uh, yeah, I'm sorry about that. A lot of strange things were happening at the time and I was acting out. But if you let me show you, you'll understand."

It was an intriguing proposition, especially considering that Draco was rather partial to unpleasant magic encounters that messed with the mind. Still, little more would be possible without. . .

"Fine," Draco started abruptly. "But nothing can get done until I get a least one more hit."

Briefly startled, Harry nodded, but Draco had turned his back on him and muttered, '_Stolidus_,' figuring that a dulling spell was probably the safest bet considering the planned activity. He was still for a long moment as his mind processed events, then he slowly turned with unbalanced steps and blinked owlishly at the Boy-Who-Lived. "I'm ready," he drawled strangely.

Harry found the entire affair extremely troubling, and this Malfoy particularly distressing, but he had never been one to retreat when the going got muddy and course bog-like. In his experience, if one can just keep moving long enough, the desired destination can usually be reached (sure, they're might be other easier ways, but headlong perseverance does generally pay off). And so Harry raised his wand just high enough to aim at the waifish creature; he steadied his mind for his endeavor, _just so_, so that he could skim the surface of the other's mind and feed him the necessary scenes.

"_Legimens_."

In his mind's eye, Draco rushed towards him and then everything changed –

! BREAK !

_Grey, cool light pervaded everything. Distantly, the world outside appeared faded and bleak, while the claustrophobic world inside slow and empty, and relieved to be that way. The atmosphere was deeply, deliberately numb, as though once the site of some unforgettable atrocity. The blood had been washed away, but the invisible stains and emotional scars endured, and took up their own roles in the person that was Draco Malfoy._

_A metaphysical shiver caressed Harry, who was concerned that Draco's psychic landscape wasn't providing any directional queues. Well, expect for the elephant in the room – the obvious **pull**, like a black whole, a point of oblivion that constantly tempted the heart and soul._

'_Draco? Are you ready?'_

_For a brief beat there was no response, but then a warm breeze seemed to pass through and in his gut Harry _felt_ the affirmative. He tried to gather his own thoughts and wits from his precarious position on the periphery of Draco's mind; then, when he was ready, he purposely recalled the memories that would explain what needed to be understood._

_There was an aggravating conversation with Snape and Dumbledore, then a desperate sprint to the dungeons to find Malfoy standing over a cauldron, then memory abruptly cut off. . . _

_When Malfoy's mind gave no apparent or immediate response, Harry barreled on and called forth another conversation with Dumbledore, one resulting in a mission and a further strange set of events that led to a shocking, but delicious sexual encounter. . . _

_But still Harry detected no sign of recognition or reaction from the psychic environment, though he sensed a mounting tension that could not end well. The strain of the effort was beginning to wear him down, but he intrepidly continued on to a time and place where he met a bold racer who lived as a muggle and convinced him to save the world. Then Ron got the potion ingredients, and Dragon Maloy took the potion –_

_**STOP!**_

The tension exploded and Draco violently threw Potter out of his mind before his other self had even drained the vial. It had been easy to be detached from the other memories, they were more unreal and meaningless than even everyday life; but this _Dragon Maloy_ was too happy, too whole, and altogether too much, and Draco's normal deadened daze was poorly equipped to withstand the overwhelming onslaught of confused and conflicting emotions. At some point during the ordeal, he had sunk to his knees, but he was on his feet again in an instant, glaring at where Potter was still recovering his bearings.

"What the hell was that supposed to be!" he choked, voice breaking with panic, head spinning. Angerhatehopeenvydespairdesire. . . the emotionss zipped through him like a crazed wasp until the aggregate was unidentifiable from hysteria.

Then he wasn't even looking at Potter, his face was contorted wildly and he was keening and yanking at his hair, beating at his skull, again on his knees; _fuck_, anything to make it stop. His weak emotional tracks were overpowered with all the input, and all that remained was an all-consuming AGONY.

Harry scrambled towards him without hesitation, trying anxiously to get a grip on his arms to prevent Draco from hurting himself, but the other boy was completely oblivious (not to mention quite a bit stronger than was obvious from his rail-thin form). When Draco's behavior failed to subside, Harry's own panic flared and he acted on instinct – pulling away and grappling for his wand.

"_Stolidus stolidus stolidus!_" he said frantically, so desperate to end Draco's fit that he didn't register until after the fact that he had cast the hex three times. Then he watched with bated breath as the Slytherin's movements quickly stilled, then gradually relaxed. Draco lowered his hands, studying them as though confounded as to what they had been doing atop his head.

"Are you okay?" Harry ventured nervously.

Draco reluctantly tore his eyes away from his thin fingers and turned blankly to where Harry sat a meter away. He showed no recognition for a long moment, but Harry fancied that he could almost see the subdued cerebral cogs slowly turning.

"Bloody 'ell," he slurred.

Potter cracked a weak, relieved smile. "Yeah, that's about right. Are you okay?"

This time the question elicited a struggling frown and another long pause (delayed reaction time was a hallmark of the _Stolidus_ hex after all). Eventually, Draco nodded, though he was unsure if it was true.

"Do you remember the memories I showed you?" Potter asked against his better judgment.

The frown returned, deeper this time, melancholy and a little disturbed. Draco raised his hands again to rub at his eyes, then turned away from the Gryffindor's intense gaze and lay down on the cool stone floor. Thinking just seemed like too much of an effort, and the idea of thinking about 'the memories' was positively draining. All he wanted was to close his eyes and make the world go away.

Affection forced Harry to take pity and not push the matter, though he knew he would have to try again before the day was up. If he couldn't convince this Malfoy to _want _to go back, then both of them would end up staying in this crappy universe for at least another day, but potentially forever.

Figuring that the blonde was too out of it (and possibly asleep), he crawled over to Draco's foetal form, spooned up to him, and wrapped an arm around the slender waist. Draco sighed and snuggled back into the warmth, then drifted off to sleep; but Harry had no relief from worry, and lay wakefully next to Draco's comforting form, focusing on anything other than the feelings that he secretly knew he harbored.

! BREAK !

"Harry?"

The voice was soft and fragile, and a little muffled, but it was enough to rouse Harry out of his light doze a couple hours later. "Hmm? Whah?" he grunted as his mind tried to pick up speed.

"Did those things really happen?"

Harry blinked widely a couple times before finally feeling like his normal self. When he spoke, he tried to sound soothing, but it came out more defeated. "Yeah."

". . . so you're not the same Potter from yesterday. But that was you acting odd last week?"

Harry blushed at the memory. "Yeah." Then, when Draco didn't respond, he continued, "I thought you would have remembered. . . In the other worlds, after you had taken the potion, it wasn't too difficult to get you to remember. All you needed was a bit of prodding. I was hoping that if I showed you, you'd get in touch with some inner you or inner sight or something. You know, recognize the hidden reality. I don't pretend to now how this whole _Quaero Tempus _thing works. It hasn't been very predictable."

Draco snorted slightly. "Inner sight? Don't make me laugh, I can't see what's right in front of my face. I mean, I am scarcely aware of the right now, and I barely remember yesterday, so how am I supposed to remember something that never actually happened?"

His voice was bitter and it bit a little at Harry's heart so that he found himself stroking long, silky hair. "The real question is, can you believe in a world you don't remember?"

Draco turned his head slightly so that Harry could finally see his face – he really was beautiful. "That last memory. . . was that really me?"

"Yeah, that was you after you ran away, when you were around nine or ten I guess. You turned out pretty impressive," Harry said truthfully. "I'm, uh, sorry, Draco. Sorry that I had to take you away from a good life. You deserved it."

Draco lay silent and still in his arms for a long time while Harry watched him intently. Finally his thoughts forced the sorrowful question, "How did you get like this?"

Draco turned his head away again, and his body shivered violently, though the stone floor had long ago warmed under their body heat, and Harry moved his had to reassuringly rub the thin shoulders. The Slytherin was silent for so long that Harry begun to think that he wasn't going to answer.

"I don't know. . . I just got lost along the way, but I can't. . . remember," he whispered finally. "I think. . . I used to be somebody else, somebody strong I think. Pig-headed and contrary I guess, that is what Father says. He says that I defied him, but I don't remember much from then. . . I was stupid, I should have known better, I should have fought him on the sly or something, maybe stabbed him in his sleep. . . Father is a monster, and I was too young to take him on like I did. . . It tipped him off that I would never be what he wanted me to be. So he fucked me all up. He says that weakness is better than defiance. I don't know what he did exactly, or even how long it took. I have nightmare about it sometimes, but I don't really remember. . . Then for years he cast spells on me to make me this way and that. After a while, it was me who cast the magic. . . it feels sometimes like Father. . . broke me."

He trailed off pathetically, and Harry wanted to deny his words, for both their sakes, but he couldn't help but agree.

! CHAPTER END !

PLEASE REVIEW


	17. Day 9, Part I: Perverts and Degenerates

Disclaimer: Not mine.

THANK YOU FOR YOUR READERSHIP & REVIEWS.

Ch. 17: Day Nine, Part I: Perverts and Degenerates

No one could ever accuse Draco Malfoy of not being observant. He knew that something was amiss the moment he woke; indeed, his very first coherent thought was, what is wrong here?

Raising himself up on his elbows, he was a little surprised to realize that he could sense total awareness hovering on the periphery of thought, he could see it if he dared look at it. Even as he ventured to ignore it, it _nagged _at him, taunting him to peak at the hidden knowledge of transcendental memory. . .

A part of him was hesitant, knowing that he would hate what was there to be found; but still he barely hesitated. After all, Malfoys were firm disciples of their version of the ancient axiom, what you don't know most certainly can (and probably will) try to kill you.

So he looked –

And it was every bit as ugly as he had feared: that wretched Potter, alternate time-lines, hopelessness, magic addictions, terror, Azkaban, agony, muggles, _sex_ with that wretched Potter, death. . .

It made him pause for a moment, a faint nausea rising distaste in his saliva, his mind driving back the sudden torrent of memories and crushing them into a solid-steel box to be stored unobtrusively. His skills in this department had served him well over the years and did not fail him now.

The memories were broken and confusing, but many were appalling enough to defy any misunderstanding. Draco had seen many horrors in his short life, but it was obvious that the situation was exceptionally sordid. Nevertheless, anything this messy must have some angle to play, and no Malfoy could ever be accused of passing on an opportunity.

Because that was the sort of Malfoy, wizard, human that he was: a dangerous mercenary, a man on the run, a wizard with no time or use for uncontrolled reactions. Of course, he preferred to think of himself (with some merit) as a visionary – for only he could see what was in plain sight, while others got caught up in millions of myriad _details_. But not him, he had priorities, and so it was time to soldier on. Whatever might come, well, he would do whatever was in his best interest.

He reached out and tapped his alarm clock before it went off. His actions would likely translate into Crabbe and Goyle not waking until the early-rising Zabini returned to pick up his satchel. They would probably be late for class, and even better, they would miss breakfast, which would torture both excruciatingly until lunch.

The blonde smirked to himself, twisting to sit up in bed. Fuck those arseholes.

Now that the seventh years were gone, his court was diminished and less engaging. He wanted to say he despised their presence even more now, but really he had always despised the company of his peers. Political maneuvering was necessary, of course, so clever tricks of mind allowed him achieve solitude amidst the many.

He showered and dressed quickly, fiercely gelling his hair back to look as intimidating as possible. "Aren't you a handsome devil?" he asked the mirror, executing routines even while only in the company of animate objects.

"Ooo, you _do_ look good," Andy gushed. "Though I wish you wouldn't do that dreadful thing with your hair."

Draco left the bathroom without reaction, gathered his school bag from his room (where the porkers still slept), and climbed out of the cold dungeons. He passed through the arch to the Great Hall and glanced over at the Gryffindor table.

Potter was looking straight at him, as if he had been expecting him to make his entrance right then. His odd behavior all those days ago made sudden sense in the context of his new-

The thought cut out and Draco glared at the Gryffindor menace before he moved confidently towards his customary spot at the Slytherin table, then sat himself next to Zabini and the insufferable Pansy Parkinson.

"Hey, Grumpy." Guess who said that?

"Hmm," was all she got out of him as he began portioning out a hefty meal of eggs, sausage, and hashbrowns.

Zabini's plate had been polished off, and he quickly stood to leave. "Where are Crabbe and Goyle?"

Draco shrugged, but he let his smirk betray him as he eyeballed the weaker Slytherin. "Asleep would be my guess."

"Great, Malfoy," Zabini muttered flatly, taking his leave.

Breakfast proceeded to be an unpleasant affair. Draco was his usual pissy and dissatisfied self, on top of which the food was mediocre, Parkinson's presence was torment, and that Harry bloody Potter kept making suspicious eye contact with him at peculiar moments. It was actually a relief when it was time for Advance Charms, despite some of Flitwick's idiosyncrasies (that creaking voice!) being as intolerable as Parkinson's fawning.

Of course, Potter sat in front of him, reluctantly accompanied by his two suspicious monkeys, despite the fact that Draco sat in far corner where Flitwick mostly left him alone to pursue his own studies. The Slytherin retrieved a heavy book from his satchel and opened it, but his peripheral vision could detect Potter's darting gaze, and the mudblood's shifting attention. He was pretty sure the bespectacled prat wanted to talk to him, so the question remained, should be allow Potter the access or avoid him for the rest of the day?

As soon as the considered the dilemma, his path was obvious: Draco Malfoy itched for conflict, that was just the way he was, and he made a point of never going out of his way for anyone if he didn't have to. He freely admitted that the fact that the potential conflict was with Potter made the prospect all the more enticing. The Boy-Who-Lived had been off limits ever since that rotten deal had been made (talking about things that made him itch!), but he was tempted to taste such interaction. It brought a malevolent warmth to his gut.

Let the prick come if he wanted to.

! BREAK !

Ten minutes later, Crabbe and Goyle stumbled in, wrinkled and out of breath, and Flitwick ordered them to each write an extra foot on the night's homework assignment – the worse punishment to inflict upon two such utter simpletons. Draco snorted softly in amusement, not used to there being anyone sitting close enough to hear; but there was this time, and the entire Golden Trio turned their heads to glance back at him in surprise.

What the fuck are you staring at!

But Draco held his tongue. It never came naturally, but neither did he ever fail to follow by the deal Father had ordered him to establish – because doing so was in his best interests. Well, for the time being anyway, and wouldn't it be a glorious day when it finally _wasn't_ in his best interests?

The Slytherin buckled down, focusing on his text and blocking out the noisy classroom and his distracting neighbors; getting lost in an old account of ancient strategy and battle. This tome, _Havel Mackwood's Guide to Historical Warfare_, was particularly intriguing, with its details of specific curses and practical outlines of complex maneuvers. Put to use, his single-minded intellect analyzed all the possibilities and projected them upon more current conditions. That move _here_, _now_. He'd have to use someone as a shield to execute _that_ move, given the present classroom situation.

When Flitwick finally called an end to the double period, Draco slowly, meticulously packed his books and writing tools as the other students stampeded out of the room. Except, of course, for the Golden Trio – but it appeared that Potter was trying to get his two lackeys to go on without him. Flitwick left and then, calculated perfectly, Potter turned to face him at the exact moment that he moved to leave.

"Malfoy."

Their eyes met, and a rush of adrenaline chilled them both, prompting Draco to drawl, "Nothing for years, and now twice in a fortnight? Potter. . . are you _missing _me again?"

Potter scowled and Draco sneered maliciously before pushing past –

Predictably, Potter grabbed his arm, and that was all Draco had been waiting for. He used his trapped arm to shove Potter away, then twisted around and his free fist landed a punch on Potter's shoulder. He had been aiming for the nose, but Potter was a fast bugger, and a good fighter.

Potter scrambled away, looking wary now, as though he had forgotten who Draco was.

Nobody forgets Draco Malfoy, or who he is.

"It's not like that, D- Malfoy," Harry explained quickly. "Really, I just want to talk. It doesn't have to be this way."

By Draco's standards, this exchange had so far been the highlight of the day, and so he marshaled on. "Is that so, dickweed? And what manner of way do you envision exactly?"

"Well. . .," Potter stalled. "There's this situation that I would like to work out with you."

"Yes, you told me about it last time," the Sytherine deadpanned, sounding very uninterested and unimpressed despite the predatory squint in his glare.

"Yeah, well, I sorted most of it out, sort of," Potter defended.

Draco reacted violently and shoved Potter up against the wall. "You certainly managed to sort me out," he growled angrily.

"What do you mean?" he stammered, and Draco could see – see that Potter picked up on his insinuation, but was denying that interpretation.

His hands pinning Potter's arms to the wall, Draco leaned in close so that the warmth of their breath caressed each other's skin. It would have almost been erotic, had Potter not been so out of his depth, and had Draco's expression been one of absolute loathing.

"You didn't tell me you were a fudgepacker with a thing for me," Draco spat nastily, inches from the other boy's face.

If Potter had been under some misconception about their relationship before, he wasn't anymore, and he struggled and bucked out of the taller boy's grasp. Draco let him go, and he took a moment to collect himself before yelling back, "Fuck you, Malfoy. There's no way you could accuse me of that unless you remember the last few days! Because _we_ never existed where _I_'m from, just as _we_ don't exist here either. You're a real arsehole for pretending you don't know what I'm talking about!"

"You can't refute it, can you, Potter?" Draco growled dangerously, sending a visible shiver through the Gryffindor's body. Again, Draco pushed him against the way, and Harry let him; he roughly cups Harry's privates, making him moan.

"You're hard, you fucking nasty queer bastard," Draco said, voice dripping with disgust. Angered, and afraid that the intoxicating blonde would draw away, Harry reached forward and grabbed at Draco's trousers.

"So are you," Harry gritted furiously.

Draco slammed him back against the wall, this time using his whole body so that their grips fell away and torsos and pelvises mashed together violently. "Indeed, but I am a fiend, a pervert and a degenerate," he hissed dangerously. "I'm here 'cause I get off on degradation and suffering. What's your excuse?"

For long moments the warm air between them was tense and choked, Draco's words wounding deeply, mixing agony with anger so that Harry didn't know if he wanted to cry or kill; and, then, somewhere in this mess, the truth escaped. "Well I get off on you. . . And if that makes me a pervert and a degenerate, then so be it."

It was hard to admit, but it was undeniable. Harry Potter _really liked_ Draco Malfoy, no matter the context or timeline, and this completely undermined any attempt at objectivity. The Slytherin drew back slightly, as though to reevaluate the situation given this inedible revelation. "Potter, you _animal_," he purred scathingly. "Why did you not speak of your carnal desires earlier?"

Harry's flushed complexion again adopted an angry scowl, though he didn't push the solid body away. "Screw you, Malfoy. Why's you always gotta act the arsehole?"

Excited, and pleased with himself, Draco whispered, "Because I'm good at it." The he closed the space between their faces and bit Harry's lips.

It hurt, and Harry immediately pushed back in objection, but he didn't break contact with the tantalizing lips. He bit back, then before he knew it Draco was the one pinned to the wall, lips and law and neck devoured by Harry's lonely, thirsty mouth. Both were panting, and Draco bucked into the dominating pressure –

Flashes of vertigo memory seared his mind, and the experience slipped almost seamlessly into a reenactment of a past blueprint. . . The thing with Potter, see, was a fantasy; one that substituted the cruel rapes by a feared yet still beloved family member, with imagined sexual encounters involving the tangible enemy-figure of Harry Potter. Merde, if survival didn't demanded constant and complete rationality, Draco'd be sorely tempted to descended into a temporary schizophrenia.

But Harry wasn't a complete fool and he was perfectly capable of recognizing patterns of behavior, despite his relative inexperience with sex and romance. Now pinning Draco's wrists to the wall, and nuzzling up to his soft earlobe, Harry whispered, "Why does it always come down to this?" He dug his hips painfully into Draco's body for emphasis. "I don't like hurting you."

In the throes of reenacting some past abuse, Draco responded poorly to Harry's break in character and forcefully shoved him away, fury, lust, and fear momentarily confounding his attempt at communication. "You don't get that! You monster-"

He cut himself off suddenly, though his words didn't really make sense even to himself, for he had realized immediately that he had opened himself to attack. He tried to backpedal, crossing his arms defensively and sneering contemptuously. "In fact, on second thought, I don't think you're going to get anything from me, except maybe a kick in the face."

Potter ignored the threat, realizing the implications of Draco's exclamation almost immediately, and pounced on that subconscious slip, replying boldly, nervous but astute, "A monster? That doesn't sound like me, are you sure you're not confusing me with someone else? . . . Your _father_ perhaps? He's a monster if I recall."

Draco's mind raised every wall and defense to take the attack (though offense was more of his forte). He was able to stand stiffly, a disdainful expression frozen to his features, and the only sign of reaction the glassiness of his slightly-wider-than-normal eyes. But Potter wasn't done yet, and he took a couple steps so that they were again close. "_I _don't get that, Malfoy? Who gets it then? _Daddy_? Only Daddy gets to touch you gentle?" He reached out his wand hand and lightly traced his fingers along Draco's pale cheek.

Draco's throat released an involuntary whimper-growl that betrayed his inner pain, for Potter had known exactly where he was weakest, and had stabbed him there. How unexpectedly _Slytherin_, and that was Draco's own fault for underestimating the other boy. He knew the sort of ammunition Potter had on him, but he had stupidly and arrogantly walked right into a steaming pile of shite. Perhaps if he had spent years being bested by Potter he would have anticipated this, but this Draco Malfoy could count the number of interactions he had personally had with Harry Potter on one hand.

But these peripheral thoughts barely registered, for Draco's bio-emotional makeup developed to protect against this sort of vulnerability – whenever it felt pain that it didn't like, it reflexively sent an adrenaline jolt of energizing hate through him.

Draco jerked his knee up as forcefully as he could, nailing Potter in the gonads.

Harry cried out and fell to the floor, his head nearly missing a table corner, then gasps for the breath to cuss out the dirty fucker! "Malfoy, you motherfucking asshole," he moans. "You shitty fucking bastard. I'm not done with you yet."

Draco sneered. "Then next time it'll be a knife instead of my knee."

He left briskly, and Harry moved to follow, before common sense told him to stop. He was in serious pain, and he was really angry, not to mention that Malfoy was in an extremely foul mood: now would probably be the worst moment possible to try to convince Malfoy of anything. Instead, he sat down at a desk to catch his breath and calm down. The class he had skipped was almost over and lunch would be soon.

He'd try again later.

! BREAK !

Draco skipped lunch to go running. He was feeling angry and aggressive and really wanted to beat the crap out of something. Being a prefect made it difficult to beat the crap out of students, and Hogwarts seriously lacked in the area of weight sets and punching bags – both old reliables at the bloodcurdling Malfoy Manor.

So running was the best there was. Sometimes flying was more appropriate, when he needed to feel the wind in his hair, but Draco usually preferred the raw physicality of really _running_; of sprinting, dashing, racing until his legs gave out and his lungs flamed, gasping for breath as his insides ached; of bending inertia and fighting gravity, of fighting the bodily exhaustion. He had gotten very good at it over the years, and was not overconfident in thinking that he was the fastest student at the school. Hogwarts types didn't think too much of running; even the oddballs who played football on the Quidditch field didn't run half as much as Draco did.

Running helped a little. By the time the lunch break ended, he had sweated and strained out most of the energy fueling his rage, though he was still in a rotten mood. He changed his shoes back and replaced his robe, muttering two spells – one to evaporate the sweat from his person, and the other to straighten his clothes and hair – then walked briskly to AA.

The solitude and relative quiet of Advanced Arithmany afforded him some ability to get lost in his studies, though he did spend a good ten minutes drawing a colorful depiction of him strangling Potter. Still, he had almost managed to block out the whole Potter fiasco by the time he encountered the menace again at Ad Trans.

Draco studiously ignored the Gryffindor's glances his way, made despite the fact that again Draco was situated at the back corner of the class, left mostly to his own devices. His grades rivaled Hermione Granger's (though his conduct was in polar opposition to her brownnosing participation), so the professors let him be. A live-and-let-live policy was best for all involved.

At least until the War drags into the school, and the killing begins.

! END OF CHAPTER !

I really enjoyed writing this chapter, bad guy Malfoy is my fav, so more bad moods next chapter! Sorry I am so slow, as always, but school is revving up for Exam Season, so it's not going to get any better. The next chapter is, however, on its way if you can bare with me. PLEASE REVIEW, it will help push me to write!


	18. Day Nine, Part II: Russian Roulette

Disclaimer: Not mine.

No one loves me, I never get any reviews. -(

Ch. 18: Day Nine, Part II: Russian Roulette

Ad Trans came to an end and Draco packed and left quickly to avoid being cornered by Potter again. After a brief visit to his room to drop off his book bag, he headed to the Quidditch field for practice. He was captain this year, and he had some particularly nasty (and clever) tricks up his sleeve. They might not win, but they'd pulverize those Gryffindors even in their infernal victory, and make them limp away with their trophy.

"Don't look so miserable!" Draco barked. "It's just a little wind! Use it to your advantage!"

The weather had deteriorated quickly from the afternoon, so that the Slytherin team took off into a cold bluster that made flying difficult. Draco released the practice balls, designed for the short mock games that started off each practice, then took to the air on his broom. A few strands of Draco's hair escaped the gel to whip around his face as he ascended higher, while circling swiftly, to observe the other players and scan for the snitch. With speed came adrenaline, mixing with the chill, the wind, the flying, the exerting, the yelling –

"Tork! Nott! Are you blind or just jerking off! Bulstrode is completely open!" The two boys moved quickly to block Bulstrode, but it didn't stop Crabbe from hurling the Quaffle to her. Given the absence of the seventh year Slytherins from Hogwarts, it was no surprise that almost half of the team was composed of sixth years. Next year, his class too would be gone, drafted into the Dark Lord's ranks.

The mock game ended twenty minutes later, everyone's skin numb and insides burning. Draco then ran them through a series of strenuous drills to practice midair reversals and dodges, combination lay-ups (aka scoring), and strategic take-outs of key positions (with the seeker being the preferred target of course).

Practice ended with the usual recap of what had been the day's strengths and weaknesses, followed by a break to the showers. His teammates washed and dressed quickly to catch the end of dinner, but Draco was reluctant to leave the hot spray of water that beat numbingly on his back. He liked the way he solitary presence filled the empty changing room. It had been a long, angry day, and the heat hitting his skin relaxed his muscles, and calmed the adrenaline that constantly rushed through his veins. Alone once more, fatigue was finally allowed to seep in. . .

"Malfoy?"

Blast. Bloody Potter again. He tried to ignore him, hoping that he would go away, but of course he had no such luck. The Gryffindor's footsteps sounded close now – right outside the cubicle.

Draco slammed off the shower and grabbed his towel, hastily drying his body, shaking his head to splatter the water from his sopping hair.

"Malfoy, I know you're in there."

Draco snorted softly, irritably throwing his towel to floor and grabbing his pants. "What are you doing, Potter?" he sneered. "Stalking me?"

"I didn't get to say all that I wanted to last time," Potter's voice replied.

Draco rolled his eyes, pulling on his shirt. "I'm sure you didn't."

"Yeah, well. I wouldn't bother if it wasn't important."

The Slytherin crouched to put on his shoes. "You should bother even if it was."

He grabbed the rest of his stuff, then flung open the door to reveal a very determined Harry Potter. "We need to work together to fix things."

Draco pushed past Harry towards the mirror, where he began to straighten his clothes and tuck his hair behind his ears. "Don't you mean that _you_ need _me_ to take us back to the way _you_ want?"

It took Harry a moment to conceive of the situation from that point of view, but how typical of the _real _Draco Malfoy. Following the blonde over to the mirror, he said, "If we get back, then I can help you."

Draco was donning his tie, but jerked his face around to spit, "I don't need your help, Potter. Things are going well, if you haven't noticed."

"No, I hadn't," Harry barreled on. "Going well for who? For you? For your father in Azkaban? For Voldemort?"

The name made him flinch, provoking the familiar onslaught of fear and anger and hate. "Yes," he hissed, spite scrunching up his face. "The cause is going well, and you will be dead soon."

The words and the hostility made Harry blanche, and Draco noticed and maliciously pressed, "Two parents and a godfather have been picked off. There's only a couple more before its your turn."

Frustrated and upset with the turn of events, sickened suddenly with fear for his two best friends, Harry jumped to the heart of the matter, if only to escape the topics he made a habit of not thinking about. _Just stay human._ "How can you say something so horrible? How can you follow in your father's footsteps after all that he has done to you?"

"Shut up!" Draco shouted, punching Harry in the gut just as Father had always done to him. The Gryffindor must have known it was coming: he took the harsh blow and immediately retaliated by grabbing the offending hand and pulling them close. "You should hate him –"

Tense and braced against each other, Draco snarled, "You have nothing to offer me! I have already chosen my side, and there is no turning back!"

The words sent a new chill to Harry's core. "Let me see," he demanded coldly.

"Fuck you, Potter," Draco said, ripping himself away from the intensity of the deep green scrutiny; but again he had underestimated the other boy. Potter moved with him, tackling him to the ground in a frenzy of bitterness and slamming him to the stone floor, mounting him so that his knee rested on Draco's upper rib cage and his leg along the length of the firm torso. The Slytherin tried to struggle, but Harry's hand shot out to strangle him, and the pressure on his chest was terrible and painful, and Harry's foot dug into his groin. Harry single-mindedly grabbed at his left arm with his free hand and ripped back the sleeve.

Sure enough, there it was, dark and hideous and evil, staining and claiming its bearer. The Dark Mark.

After an extended pause, the disappointment and sense of betrayal finally sunk in. Harry released the arm, and it fell to the ground; he shifted his weight off the limp body and stood to watch it cough and retch for breath. Was it too late for the Malfoy heir? Was it too late for _him_?

Long seconds ticked by as Harry let Draco recover, studying him as though he was complex chess setup that he felt ill-equipped to attempt. "At least explain it to me," he broke the silence when Draco glared at him and moved to sit up. "Explain to me how you can knowingly support something so cruel and horrible."

If there had been any doubt before, it was clear now from Draco's burning eyes that he truly wanted Harry dead. If a look could kill, Harry would have been eviscerated; as it was, his gut clenched in fear as hope of gaining Draco's cooperation vanished completely.

"_Because I can_, Potter!" Draco yelled hoarsely. "And because I'm bloody good at it! I'm caught up in this war no matter what, and anything worth doing is worth doing well! I chose my path, and Malfoys never turn back!"

"That's the worst argument I've ever heard!" Harry returned furiously. Malfoy was so stubborn, it was like arguing with a brick wall!

Draco struggled to his feet, eying Harry defensively while still trying to stand proudly. "It's the truth."

They glared at each other for a beat, before Harry sighed and took a step back, grasping for any strategy other than physical confrontation. The Slytherin leaned unsteadily against the wall. "Look, Draco. I don't want to fight. So you chose your path and now its too late to back out, I can get that. But what if you could chose your path all over again? Would you still pick this one?"

Draco digested the question, understanding Harry's point immediately. In Harry's supposedly original time line, Draco Malfoy had made crucially different decisions – ones that had had, over time, significant impact on the world around him. That other Draco Malfoy had belief in his cause, had friends, even had followers; had taken on responsibility far beyond anything he could realistically fulfill; and that same Draco Malfoy was had tried to terminate that existence with the infernal _Quaero Tempus_, which Potter had fucked up.

But a part of him was tempted to go back, he could tell. He could have easily ignored it and charged down his path, but he had complete control of his actions, and he didn't really _want_ to ignore it. It felt like. . . Opportunity.

In this other world, he had a chance to work Harry Potter, and that changed everything; it was a chance to fight the Dark Lord and Father, and to save the Slytherins –

Having been long ignored to oblivion, but not yet dead, the part of him that wanted these things again suffered Draco's attention. Last time he had considered these matters, they had not fared well and had been forsaken. How would they fare this time, with almost a decade of retrospective?

These matters, these matters, these bloody awful matters. He still cared about them, still wanted them, but they had no outlet or future in this world, he would make sure of it. It was too late for _him_, but not the other Draco Malfoy. The other Draco Malfoy was in a predicament (though weren't they all?), but the opportunity posed by Potter might be just the break he needed to make the right decisions.

None of his thoughts helped him reach a conclusion, but they had passed time as his breath steadied and his bodily pain receded somewhat. Harry had backed away to sit on a locker bench; he looked as tired as Draco felt. Then he glanced up and made eye contact, "How 'bout it, Draco? Got an answer?"

"Maybe. . . ," Draco muttered, pulling on his robe, and resigned himself to delaying and leaving his options open. "I'll think about it, so you'll just have to wait and see. Now, if you would please stop stalking me. . ."

He walked out of the changing room to empty Hogwarts halls, closely followed by Harry Potter – who quickly darted in front of him. "Wait and see? That's it?"

This time it was Draco's turn to sigh. This was really getting old. "Enough already, Potter. Bugger off!"

"What about this!" Harry demanded, lunging forward to grab Draco's head and kiss him harshly, as Draco had done to him. Draco struggled for a moment before pushing him off, an agitated gleam in his eye. He raised up his left arm, the ripped sleeve exposing the hideous Mark.

"What about this?" he growled, shoving his arm in Harry's face. Harry cried out in agony and recoiled backwards, stumbling and gripping the scorching agony in his scar.

"Fuck Merlin!" Draco hadn't expected _that_ reaction, but he wasn't displeased. It was quite a revelation.

He just stood awkwardly, watching Potter gasping in pain and fighting back tears, like a wounded giant. It was fascinating really. "You're a real bastard, Malfoy."

"So I've been told."

"Don't you want to be more than that?" Harry returned, lowering his arms and fixing Draco with a penetrating gaze.

"Don't start with that again, Potter." Then he strode away, leaving Harry to slowly make his way to Madam Pomfrey.

! BREAK !

After yet another blasted encounter with Potter, the last thing Draco wanted to do was meet with Severus Snape, but it came with being in Slytherin, and with being allied with Father and the Dark Lord.

He winded through the dungeons, taking a quick twisted path to Snape's poorly lit corridor and his rough, oak-solid door, upon which he sharply rapped twice.

"Who is it?" came the muffled bark.

"Draco Malfoy, sir. I wish to speak with you about a prefect matter."

Of course, Draco had to wait a full ten seconds before the door finally opened, not because Snape was slow (which he certainly wasn't!), but because he was a right arsehole who purposely frustrated anyone he could.

Draco entered immediately and saw Snape inspecting the contents of a steaming cauldron set up in the corner of the room. Ordered, stocked, and dim, it was just what would be expected of the greasy Potions Master. Draco stalked over crossly and peered in the cauldron – dark green, smelling like pine. . . definitely a healing potion.

"Were you able to accomplish your task?" Snape asked easily, his attention never wavering from the slow stirring.

"Of course," Draco sneered, his own attention being drawn in by the potion. After the crap day this had been, a healing potion would be the perfect pick-me-up.

"Let's see it then."

Draco dug a little felt bag out of a hidden pocked into his robe. After untying the bag's ribbon, he poured its contents into his palm – a smooth, misshapen stone on a leather cord. Snape finally stopped stirring to take the amulet and inspect it carefully, then after a moment he conceded that it was in fact, precisely the amulet that Draco had been set to retrieve. The greasy git was reluctantly impressed: it had proven impossible to determine exactly who was wearing the charm, just that its presence had set off the wards; Malfoy must have searched the student population one by one. It was quite a feat to have been accomplished in only two weeks, but someone like Draco Malfoy would have his ways.

Draco quickly grew impatient. "Well?"

Snape placed the amulet in his pocket and turned his attention back to a cauldron that was now threatening to boil over. He knew that he was playing a perilous game, because he knew that this Slytherin was every bit as dangerous as his father. Either one would betray him the moment it became convenient; which is why he didn't feel so bad about manipulating his godson. "Well what? You did as required of you. Do you call for praise?"

"No. Just further assignment," Draco snapped.

"I'll let you know," this Head of House replied, dismissing him.

But Draco didn't leave. Standing there in front of the cauldron, bickering with Snape – it felt more familiar, and more comfortable than it should have.

Snape had put out the hearth and was staring at him expectantly.

"Sir. . . did you care for me as a child?" Those childhood memories were so foreign now, and this dark man before him was suspicious and duplicitous, and most certainly up to something.

Snape studied him for a moment before raising an eyebrow, "I suppose that I must have."

How was it like to be friends with this man, to be his protégée? Considering it for even a moment was enough to trigger the adrenaline, and with it the distaste and hostility that spiced his life. He turned to leave before the reflexive sneer could be seen by his Head of House.

"Let's leave it at that then."

! BREAK !

Harry didn't return from the Infirmary until late, but that didn't spare him an ambush from his two incorrigible friends. He had barely stepped into the common room when Ron called from his place on the sofa, "Harry."

The room was empty except for a sleeping fourth year in a far chair. Harry approached the oddly smug-looking Ron and the shrewd-looking Hermione. "Sorry I'm so late. I went to the Infirmary after supper."

"Get into a tiff with Malfoy, did you?" Hermione commented calculatedly.

Harry was a little stunned by her insight, and smiled faintly. "Actually, now that you mention it –"

"Oh _Harry_. Why this again?" Hermione asked pityingly.

"Calm down, 'Mione. I'm just passing back through, everything'll be fine tomorrow." Or not, Harry silently added.

"Don't listen to her, mate," Ron grinned, and clapped Harry's shoulder briefly. "I think it's wicked that you stood up to that tosser. Did you get in a real brawl with him? What happened?"

Harry grinned a little wider as the memory flushed him. "Pretty much what you would expect – violence, threats, accusations, a few dirty words."

"Eh. You really don't need to smile so when you say that," Hermione muttered distastefully.

"Yes, he does," Ron replies, his anit-Malfoy sentiments aligning with his natural inclination to spar with 'Mione. "It's wonderful. If I had been there, I'd've pounded his snotty face, and broken that snotty nose."

Even Hermione chuckled slightly, though of course she tried to hide it. They went to bed soon after, without Harry being further hassled, but he knew that, in her bed, Hermione was also up worrying about what tomorrow would bring.

! BREAK !

In the end, he probably did it for the same reason the original Draco had made the _Quaero Tempus_ – because he was a gambler, and quite fancied a game of temporal Russian roulette.

! CHAPTER END !

PLEASE REVIEW. What do you think: should I end this story next chapter or keep it going? I haven't been getting many reviews, so I guess people have gotten tired of this story. I might be wise to end next chappy instead of taking it farther and losing everyone's (including my own) interest. Let me know.


	19. Day 10, Part I: Snap Back to Reality

Disclaimer: Harry Potter & Co. are the property of JK Rowling, who I am not.

Reviewers: THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU! I was getting pretty depressed about the lack of feedback, but my last chappy got lots of reviews! Thank you so much! I am inspired again! On goes the story! Soon I will be on X-mas vacation, so hopefully I will be able to update quicker. Don't get lazy now, review this chapter too!

Chapter 19: Day 10, Part I: Snap Back to Reality, Oops There Goes Gravity

Harry's eyes fluttered open, mindlessly taking in a blurry white ceiling. He reflexively yawned, but it triggered a violent coughing fit; he shot up in bed but his muscles felt so weak and stiff that he lay back down as soon as coughs stopped racking his body.

Finally he was able to look around, immediately identifying the white of the Infirmary (not to mention the infernal Infirmary gowns!) even without his glasses – which he quickly located on the table stand next to his bed. Once the world was in focus, he was greeted by confines he recognized as one of the small patient rooms attached to the main hall of the Infirmary. Regretably, he had been here a couple times before, just not with Malfoy.

Sure enough, the few meters away a thin figure lay motionless under a white sheet, and Harry felt a wave a relief at recognizing Malfoy's pale face. As the realization sunk in, the feeling quickly drowned by frantic exhilaration that forced its way to the surgace through hysterical laughter. He'd done it! _They_'d done it! They were back in their own timeline!

Of course, he couldn't be sure, but he was anyway. For the first time in a week and a half, he felt normal! No bizarre connection with Malfoy, no sense of displacement! He actually yelled in liberation, "YEEEAAAH," because _nothing _he had ever encountered could possibly be as terrifying as being lost in mind-fucking alternate realities. Voldemort would never be as frightening ever again. Now that he was finally back, he had no doubt that it was far better to die in his own universe than live anywhere else. _This _was home, and there was no denying it.

Apparently his laughing and yelling had not gone unnoticed, for Madam Pomfrey suddenly opened the door, asking, "What's going on in here?"

Harry smiled widely at her, and as she gawked at him a split second.

"Harry, you're awake! Oh, sweet Merlin, thank you!" Madam Pomfrey rushed him far faster than such a rotund middle-aged lady had any right to, and he was pulled into an almost-crushing hug.

When she did not immediately let go, he felt the need to reassure her, "It's okay, Madam Pomfrey. I'm fine!"

The kindly lady pulled away, tears twinkling in her eyes and a small, pitiful smile on her lips. "Oh, Harry. I'm so relieved that you're awake, no one thought you would make it back. Here, let me check you out."

Her training kicked in and she began to check Harry's condition: measuring his temperature, breathing, and pulse. . .

"So, everyone was able to figure out what happened?"

Madam Pomfrey was now asking him to look this way and that, but she hummed in affirmation. "Professor Snape came to the correct conclusion almost immediately. It wasn't too hard considering that you were found lying in the potion."

"Is Dr- . . . Is Malfoy going to be okay?" Harry's eyes flicked nervously towards the still figure on the nearby bed.

Pomfrey looked over at the corner, a frown materializing on her face. "I don't know. Not much is known about the effects of the _Quaero Tempus_, many don't even think it is possible to brew. And you two consumed it so bizarrely anyway, so who knows? No one thought you'd wake up at all, but if I had to guess, I'd say his best chance for waking up would be today, with you. If you were traveling together, anyway."

Harry was beginning to feel slightly queasy at the possibility of Draco not waking up, of him being trapped in one of those horrific worlds he had been dragged through. "We were. Traveling together, I mean."

Madam Pomfrey nodded. "Well, you get some rest. I need to check on Mr. Malfoy and let the Headmaster know that you have woken. He will be. . . very relieved."

Harry caught the pause at the end of her sentence, and his spider-sense knew that it meant something was wrong; something beyond him and Malfoy and the bloody awful _Quaero Tempus_. Still, for the moment he allowed himself not to worry about it, and his attention followed the kindly mediwitch to the other bed, where she used her wand to cast a couple of spells on the unconscious Slytherin. She looked puzzled at the results.

"Is he okay?" Harry called out anxiously.

Madam Pomfrey look over at him, a little surprised at his obvious concern. Then again, she supposed that it was only inevitable after having been through what they had together. "I don't know, Harry. His readings are normal for the first time since you two were found unawares. In fact, there is no reason he shouldn't be awake, except that he obviously isn't. . . " She trailed off pensively for a moment, then took off towards the door to the Infirmary. "I must let the Headmaster know. You should lay back down, Harry."

But as soon as she was gone, Harry was out of his bed. For a second he stood unsteadily on his feet, his muscles weak from nine days of disuse, then he grabbed his wand and walked over to the motionless blonde. Harry stood over him, comforted by a Draco Malfoy that finally looked exactly as he should: human, beatific, perfect. His hand reached out of its own volition to lightly stroke a strand of fair hair that lay splayed upon the pillow.

"Why does everything always have to be so complicated with you?" Harry asked in a voice laced with both resignation and affection. Still basking in the afterglow of his relief and exhilaration, he smiled faintly, feeling sappy. "I'm one to talk. My life is always so bloody complicated. We're a match made in Heaven. Or Hell. Either way, it was destined."

Unconsciously, his mind reached out, as though trying to travel along the connection they had once had. When he realized what he was doing, he pulled back suddenly and reflexively; though on second thought, it wasn't such a bad idea. He had shared a connection to the other teen's mind, maybe he could use that draw him out.

Never one to pass on his instincts, Harry raised his wand and, leaning over the bed, whispered, "_Legimens._"

He reached out, lightly brushing against the periphery of Draco's mind.

"What the fuck, Potter!" Draco demanded, awaking abruptly to Harry Potter brandishing a wand in his face. He reacted immediately by grabbing the Gryffindor's arm and yanking it across his body, tipping Harry's poor balance so that he collapsed onto the bed with an "Omph!"

Only then did Draco realize how much it had _hurt _to do that; he felt terrible! He tried to kick Harry off his legs, but he wasn't able to muster much force. "Get off me, Potter! I feel like was trampled by a Hungarian Horntail."

A muffled laugh escaped before Harry managed to stand up, then prop himself against the bed. "Yeah, I know, so do I. It's because we've been bedridden for nine days."

Draco's eyes widened slightly, and his skin blanched unfetchingly, making him look as though he had suddenly remembered seeing a ghost. Memories rushed him like an avalanche, raising cold bumps on his skin and speeding up his breath. "I think I'm gonna be sick," he croaked.

Then he rolled over, away from Potter, and dry heaved over the side of the bed. Having been fed magically for the last week and a half, there was nothing in his stomach to throw up, but gags racked his body anyway. He felt Potter's hand on his back, but he didn't have the energy to buck it off; then, when his breathing even out, he heard Potter's voice soothe, "It's okay, Malfoy. We're back home."

Still leaning off the side of the bed, Draco closed his eyes and sighed deeply. _Home_. He wasn't even there what that meant anymore. "What a mess," he muttered despondently to himself.

"Yeah. . .," Harry had to agree, at a loss as to how to communicate his support and his genuine desire to help in a way that wouldn't be rejected. "We'll figure it out, won't we? After all, we're very resourceful," he joked awkwardly.

Mind racing, Draco gathered his strength for a moment, before turning over and sitting himself up so he could face the Gryffindor. He made sure his expression betrayed nothing. "We?"

They held each other's gaze, and it burned with the intensity of many things unsaid, a look conveying more than words ever had. After a long, heavy silence, Harry breathily asked, "I promised I'd help, didn't I?"

His recollection was a little hazy, but Draco vaguely remembered this fact. Potter had said it more than once in the past nine days, hadn't he? Draco frowned and glanced down at the ground as he sorted through the confusing jumble of memories. Nausea and all, Harry still thought the blonde looked good enough to eat.

"Mr. Potter! Mr. Malfoy!"

Madam Pomphrey was again rushing Harry's way, this time followed by a noticeably haggard Albus Dumbledore. "He woke up," Harry explained pathetically.

"So I can see," she retorted, shooing Harry away from the bed. She began to determine his condition over his protests, but it wasn't until she lifted up his shirt to check his breathing that he snapped.

"Get away from me, you old bag! I don't need you poking me, I'm fine."

Harry's jaw dropped in surprise, still startled by Draco's rude treatment of adults despite having witnessed it numerous times; Madam Pomfrey, however, just took it in stride. Over the years she had seen almost as much of the Malfoy heir as she had seen of the Boy-Who-Lived, and certainly enough to understand that the Slytherin used his hostility to manipulate everyone around him – to keep them from getting too close, from asking the wrong questions, from learning too much. Making people back off was precisely Draco's goal, but Madam Pomfrey was not one easily manipulated; after all, she had been privy to almost every situation imaginable during her decades as Hogwart's mediwitch, and she had long ago learned that her own judgment and training truly knew best when it came to students' health. "Oh, shush up. You'd think you were fine if you woke up to four missing limbs."

Dumbledore chuckled slightly, tiredly, prompting Harry to crack a wide smile – a grin so genuine and affectionate that it killed Draco's abrasive retort on his lips. Never one to hold his tongue for anyone save himself, Draco found himself calculating which answer would please Potter. Sure, the smile brought striking energy and an attractive optimism to the Gryffindor's usually drab features, but he was more concerned that Potter's offer to help would only last as long as he wasn't pissed with him. He really did need the other boy's help if he was going to pull this off. . . In the end, he forgot about saying anything more as his thoughts grasped at the future.

Dumbledore finally turned his attention to Harry, and only then did Harry notice just how. . . _faded_ the old man looked. "Harry. . ."

Fuck.

Harry berated himself for not suspecting immediately, he had been too preoccupied with the resolution of his own adventure to pick up on any cues or to ask the right questions. Something was terribly wrong, and now he was going to find out exactly what.

"There was an attack on the school, the day before yesterday."

Even though he knew it was coming, Harry gasped. Next to him, Draco's head jerked up to stare tensely at the Headmaster.

"It wasn't a full committal of troops, just a task force of Death Eaters, so we were able to fight them off with the help of the wards. But there were a number of injured, including students." Dumbledore nodded towards the door leading to the main hall of the Infirmary, where most of the beds were located. "We tried to keep your incapacitation under raps, Harry, but someone eventually managed to send the message to Voldemort, despite our vigilance. Since the attack, the school has been in emergency lockdown, but that will have to change soon. The Minister of Magic has been demanding that we open our doors, as many parents want their children to come home. The war is clearly escalating and Hogwarts is no longer considered safe."

There was a long, heavy silence as the old wizard's words sunk in. Draco knew that at soon as the lockdown lifted, he and most of his Slytherin housemates were to be shipped directly to Voldemort's ranks. He felt hopeless, and guilty that it was _his _actions had provided the Dark Lord with the opportunity to attack. "This is my fault," he stated bluntly, embarrassed that his own weakness should have set in motion such a horrible sequence of events.

"No!" Harry returned adamantly, swamped suddenly by his own indefatigable guilt. "You just wanted to bugger off, I was the one who interrupted and dragged you back here! If anything, it's my fault! I can't even begin to understand what the hell we've been doing for the last however many days! It was some scary-ass shite, but I got myself into it, I know that! Don't you remember me tackling you?"

"Mr. Potter! You really must calm down! You are straining yourself and Mr. Malfoy here," Madam Pomfrey scolded, clearly getting annoyed at her patients' complete inability to take it easy. Indeed, Draco's whole body was tense, and the effort was making him faint; but he managed to nod slightly in affirmation to Harry's question. A part of him was eager to point out that it had been the Gryffindor's _interfering ways_ that had made such a mess out of his escape attempt.

"We have a day, tops, before the Ministry sends Aurors to make us open up." Dumbledore lifted his gaze from Harry to stare searchingly into Draco's eyes. "Everyone who wants, will of course be permitted to return home. Those who do not want to leave – well, those would be _our _primary concern."

Of course. Those who wanted to fight by Potter and Dumbledore, and those would didn't want to be forced to fight by Voldemort: these were going to be the people that would win, or lose, this war. Draco broke eye contact with the wizened headmaster to glance over at Potter; again, an unjustifiable degree of understanding passed between them. It was as two warriors meeting before battle: sad and regrettable that there must be any fighting at all, but relief that someone stood next to them on the edge of this great abyss . . .

Madam Pomfrey appeared to be finished checking up on Draco, who promptly scooted off the bed in a frail attempt at standing. Harry's reflexes were good and he caught Draco's elbow just as his legs buckled underneath him.

"Did I _say_ you could get out of bed," Pomfrey demanded shrilly, virtually manhandling Draco out of Harry's grasp and back onto the bed.

Draco's objections were much more vocal than previously. "Don't touch me like that," he bellowed, so loudly and harshly that Harry and Pomfrey both jumped back reflexively, and even Dumbledore was a little taken aback. Harry worried briefly that he was going to have some sort of episode (having lost all sense of predictability when in came to the Slytherin), but Draco had not qualms whatsoever about his behavior, and promptly tried to stand again – this time on the side of the bed opposite the other three.

No one dared to say anything, watching carefully as Draco cautiously released his grip on the bed, this time managing to stay upright, then turned his sharp eyes back to Dumbledore. Though his expression was once again unreadable, his voice betrayed the strain, "I need to talk to my housemates. Any who leave Hogwarts are likely to find themselves under the Dark Lord's dominion within days."

Harry's face showed his surprise as he finally realized the extent of the other teen's plans: Draco wanted to save the Slytherins _right now_. Dumbledore, however, nodded wisely. "I agree. Harry should go with you, he'll likely be able to help."

Wait a second! Just how did Dumbledore think _he_ could help talk to _Slytherins_?

Madam Pomfrey tutted noisily to express her disapproval at the flow of events. "Well, since absolutely no one seems to care what the sound medical course would be, I'll be getting back to the patients that actually _want _to heal."

And just like that, the mediwitch was back out the door, leaving Harry unable to formulate any response beyond, "Uhhh. . . are you sure that this is a good idea?"

Draco glanced at Harry for a second before carefully making his way towards the closet where presumably their close hung, and it was enough to communicate Draco's sentiments: he couldn't care less whether or not it was a good idea. With the spectacular failure of the _Quaero Tempus_, the prospect of a happy ended was practically nonexistent, so all that was left was to do as much as possible until the situation imploded in maelstrom of blood, pain, and death.

It was Dumbledore who chose to answer Harry's question, "It may not be a good idea, Harry, but we don't have time for anything else. We need to recruit who we can, and hope we don't meet the ones we can't in the battlefield. When you and Mr. Malfoy are done with the Slytherins, I'm going to ask you to say a few worlds to everyone in the Great Hall."

Bloody bleeding motherfucking hell, Harry berated. The war had finally begun in earnest, and now the spotlight really was on him. How had everything managed to sneak up on him like this?

! END OF CHAPTER !

PLEASE REVIEW! I will motivate me to get my next chapter out quicker. (Note: Title comes from Eminem's 'Lose Yourself'.) Sorry no _good stuff_, I'll try to incorporate some kissy kissy next chapter, though it may take a while simply because I find myself caught smack in the middle of a war.


	20. Day 10, part II: Interlude to Love & War

Disclaimer: Not mine. Property of JK Rowling Filthy Rich Enterprises.

Thank you for your reviews! To those who have expressed concern over plot points: Yes, I admit that some of my plot points are a little fuzzy (for example, the whole _Quaero Tempus _potion was poorly explained, but I didn't want to go into more detail than the characters themselves knew), but this cannot be helped. Other plot points just have not reached fruition yet, but they will!

Chapter 20: Day 10, part II: Interlude to Love and War

While Harry changed into his own robes, Dumbledore scolded the two teens firmly, in the way that only he can, leaving no doubt in either of their minds that both of their actions had been reckless and foolish in the extreme. Between the two of them, they had no only risked both of their lives, but had betrayed their responsibilities to those lives that depended on them. However, now was no time to be wallowing in deserved shamed; now was time for action. By the time he was done with them, Harry's head was spinning a little with the speed of everything, while Draco was scowling, tapping his foot, and generally acting as though he's have a stroke if he wasn't dismissed immediately.

Despite the Headmaster's warning, neither Draco nor Harry was prepared for the sight that greeted them upon leaving their isolated room: every bed in the Infirmary hall bore a patient, many also loaded with distraught visiting housemates. There were a number of teachers, while the students were mostly Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw sixth and seventh years. The sounds of life and suffering hushed quickly as attention focused on the miraculous reappearance of Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter. While little love was lost on the former, the Boy-Who-Lived was a powerful symbol of hope, especially in the wake of such a personally relevant attack.

"Harry!"

"Harry Potter!"

Harry didn't even get a chance to see who called out before the hall erupted in cheering and applause. He flushed with embarrassment, but did his duty by smiling and waving confidently. Looking around, he saw Hermione sitting next to Ron, who was laying in the bed closest to the exit. Behind Harry, Dumbledore emerged from the room, and silence settled again. "Much to everyone's relief, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy have pulled through and are with us again. I know everyone has been through a lot, and you have done admirably, but we need to be strong for the times ahead. Harry, Draco. Report to Professor Snape when you get to the dungeons."

His tone was as sobering as his words, and it compelled Draco to march down the hallway and out the door, followed awkwardly by Harry, and looking distinctly like men on a mission. Ron stared at him incomprehensibly, as though he had sprouted a second head, while Hermione's expression was calculating, revealing the intensity of her intellect as she considered this new development. All Harry could do was shrug rather pathetically – there was no look or gesture that could express any degree of the insanity from which he had just emerged. The whole _Quaero Tempus _affair was still so barely over, so barely resolved, that he was having difficulty shifting gears into his next mission. He hadn't been conscious during the attack, and the War was still not as real to him as his terrifying journey through alternate realms.

Evidently, Draco was not suffering from this condition, if the speed at which he moved was any indication of his concern with the present mission.

Out in the Howarts corridors, Harry called out, "Wait up! What do you intend on doing anyway?" Now that the constant excitement since waking was taking a momentary reprieve, he found himself famished and with little idea as to how he should proceed.

Draco stopped for a moment, letting Harry catch up, then they hurried towards the staircases. "I'm going to talk to a few. . . key people. If I can get them, then I can probably get all the Slytherins who do not want to fight with the Dark Lord. As for those who do, I doubt there's much we can do outside of just letting them go."

Harry was making an effort to consider the current matter in terms of military strategy, but Draco's worlds sounded so cool and rational that they could not help but be irritating. "Or we could kill them." Draco glanced at him in surprised, and they stopped at the landing just as a flight of stairs moved. "That's what _Voldemort_ would do," Harry stressed antagonistically, but with a glint of inspiration in his expression that stayed any harsh retort.

"Yes, we could kill them," Draco conceded reluctantly, then starting down once the staircase had stilled. "Or we could hold them for ransom. Better yet, we could use them to practice Unforgivables." What was Potter getting at?

"But we won't," Harry concluded smugly, his mind a couple steps ahead of his communication and completely missing Draco's reference to an alternate world in which _he _had been the used as a practice target.

Draco rolled his eyes. "What's your point?"

"My point is," Harry's voice dipped suddenly very soft. "My point is, we should take the students who join his ranks and use them to our advantage. You know, plant misleading information, or find a spell to bug them."

Again, Draco stopped and turned to Harry, obviously interested in what he was saying. "Bug?"

Harry tried to explain, "It's muggled device you place on something, and it records whatever happens. Surely there's gotta be a spell that can do that."

Draco nodded. "There are, two in fact, that I know of. One is easily cast, but is also easily detectable. Any halfway decent ward would set it off. The other, of course, is the Imperius."

Draco began his descent again, and Harry couldn't tell if the Slytherin was mocking him or what. Still, he needed to get his thoughts together about the War, and Draco was the perfect wall to bounce his ideas off, for obvious reasons. So, he extemporaneously voiced his next thought, "Ugh. Sometime it's really inconvenient that we don't have a better working relationship with muggles. Some of their technology would be mighty useful in this war."

"Like a bomb," came Draco's terse response.

"Well, yeah." It had been a brilliant idea, even if it wasn't successful. The memory of Draco's death in the other realm was an unwelcome reminder to both teens of just how deadly the current situation was.

"Like it worked so well last time. _I _never would have made such poor decisions," Draco sneered, distancing _him_self from his other selves, particularly the one that had both shagged Harry Potter and gotten himself killed for nothing. "Only a fool would think the Death Eaters do not have the capacity to detect muggle technology. The Dark Lord is probably just as aware of muggle weaponry as we are, if not vastly more so. Death and destruction are still death and destruction, whether wrought by magic or science."

Unfortunately, the Slytherin was almost certainly right. After all, Tom Riddle himself was raised by muggles, and had certainly heard of nuclear weapons, rocket launchers, stealth bombers, satellite observation, and most what else constituted the Military-Industrial complex. With a sigh, Harry resigned himself to the fact that if anyone would be outsmarting Voldemort, it was unlikely to be him. "There's gotta be some way we can use the students who want to join Voldemort. We shouldn't just _let them_," Harry concluded rather lamely.

"How Slytherin of you to think so," Draco replied, his mind grasping simultaneously for a plan for converting Slytherins and a plan for defeating Voldemort. Though Harry Potter now featured prominently in both, his thoughts quickly became too complex and boggling to yield much insight.

"Yeah, well, I haven't lived this long on luck alone. The Sorting Hat almost put me in Slytherin," Harry admitted. He couldn't believe what he was about to reveal to _Draco Malfoy_, but he was relieved that the events of the last nine days appeared to have somewhat transformed his relationship with the blonde, and he eager to encourage the change.

"Wouldn't that have been something else," Draco commented, coming to a stop on the ground floor. He was surprised, admittedly, and might have normally lavished attention on Harry's revelation, but at the moment he was undeniably distracted by the sickening and painful emptiness in his stomach. He hadn't eaten anything solid in over a week, and he felt every inch of this fact. "Maybe we should stop by the Kitchens before we go down to the dungeons."

"That is the best idea you've had all day," Harry said earnestly, relieved that he wouldn't have to work out the whole war thing on a hollow, growling stomach. Walking through the Great Hall towards the kitchens, it was eerie without students littering the tables. Everyone had been restricted to their Houses, except for those in the Infirmary.

When they entered the kitchens, Dobby threw a fit as always. "OH! Master Harry! I's so happy you's alive!"

Harry grinned. "Yep. Pulled through again, I did."

Dobby was about to gush on, before suddenly noticing who had come in with his idol. He froze, his eyes bugging conspicuously, and his mouth tightening, sporting the queerest expression Harry had ever seen on a house-elf. Finally, he managed to bow and speak, "Master Malfoy."

"Dobby," Draco acknowledged curtly, if also somewhat warily

"Could we get some food please," Harry asked. "We haven't eaten in days, anything will do."

Dobby was distinctly relieved to return his attention to the Gryffindor. "Of course! Immediately!"

The house-elf scurried off, leaving Draco and Harry to sit tensely at the table. Silence grew awkward quickly, Draco making a point of looking anywhere but at Harry, and Harry inexplicably unable to look anywhere other than at the Slytherin. He felt that there was so much unresolved between them, but could not for the life of him imagine a way to successfully broach such topics. Sure they must weigh as heavily upon Draco as they did on him? And what with the escalating war, Harry realized that his opportunities for addressing such concerns could be quite limited.

Rarely one for subtlety, and unnerved by the silence, Harry launched into one of a myriad of topics he wished to discuss with Malfoy. "How much of what happened in those, uh, other worlds, means anything here?"

Draco finally looked at him, an eyebrow rising attractively and enigmatically. It took him a moment before answering, as he tried to figure out exactly to what Potter was referring. After all, so much had happened. . . "I don't think you could have come up with a more vague question if you tried, Potter. As for an answer to such a question, I'll have to vaguely reply, not very much."

Harry blushed, realizing now that _of course_ his lame question would receive a useless response. As usual, when dealing with slippery Slytherins, one had to severely limit the wiggle room. So he tried again, "Yeah, but there were definitely some patterns, some consistencies you could say. If they held up in, uh. . ." He counted quickly, "five different universes, then they probably hold up in this one too, right?"

Malfoy's eyes narrowed dangerously, obviously aware to just which 'consistencies' Harry was referring, and his whole expression was transfigured from one of indifference to one of enmity. He leaned forward on the table and hissed venomously, "If you want a working relationship with me, Potter, you better never mention what happened or what you think you learned in those other worlds. Not to me, and _especially_ not to anyone else. Don't even think to yourself about it!"

A little hurt, and predictably incensed by Malfoy's typically shitty response, Harry also leaned forward on the table, adrenaline pumping, and did what Gryffindors do best – escalate the situation by being about as blunt as blugger. "And what if, _Malfoy_, I don't want a working relationship with you?"

Malfoy's chair scrapped loudly across the floor as he jumped to his feet, clearly enraged. "Then we won't have one! You're the one who offered to help, you stupid, _fickle_, fucking Gryffindor! I knew you would hold it over my head! Well, FINE," Malfoy bellowed, quickly working himself into quite a state, ever one for melodrama. Harry stood and tried to interrupt, to take back his words, but it was like trying stop a rampaging Hippogriff. "I'll figure something out on my own! I don't need your help!" Then as though realizing just how much of a lie his last claim was, he calmed slightly and lowered his voice again, to announce spitefully, "I hate you, Potter."

Harry rolled his eyes in aggravation. How many times had he heard those exact words from the Slytherin menace? "Bloody hell, Draco, stop it already. You completely misinterpreted my words, as always. I said, I don't want a _working_ relationship." Harry stepped close to the peeved blonde and, slightly drunk on his own adrenaline (the BALLS!), he grinned maniacally. "I want a different kind of relationship."

Draco did a double take, his scowl vanishing and his jaw dropping open slightly as his mind grappled with the meaning of Potter's words. Unnoticed, two plates of meatloaf apparated onto the table top. "Potter, I really don't-"

Harry took another step, grabbed Draco by the arms, and pressed his lips against his. Draco's body tensed and he gasped, and Harry took the opportunity to slide his tongue into the warm, sweet mouth. Sure, he had always had courage and good reflexes in the face of adversity, but this was a blind pursuit of what he wanted. Harry hadn't realized it yet, but his realm-jumpingexperience had altered him in subtle ways. Traumatic days in which his actions had virtually no consequence left him with a focus on the long-term goal. Whatever the immediate skirmish, he went into it with his eye on the greater purpose. And, at the moment, his two greater purposes were victory over Voldemort and having a go with Draco Malfoy.

It took only a second for Draco to react and shove Potter off of him. The two teens stood a meter apart, breathing heavily; Harry tried to interpret Draco's expression, but all he could make out was confusion and hesitance. Was that fear that flashed through his silver eyes?

Whatever it was, Draco had apparently come to a decision because he was shaking his head. "No. Nonono. Potter, you're completely off your rocker. That can never happen here, surely you must realize that?"

Of course, Harry's indifference to immediate consequences was strictly limited to the period prior to such consequences, but he did try to quash the hurt and offense that constricted his chest and lungs. "No, I don't realize that at all, it worked in those other timelines!"

"The war wasn't at Hogwarts' doorstep in those timelines, both of us have more pressing concerns! We don't have the time to be so self-indulgent," Draco snapped back. Harry couldn't argue with that, and while he was trying to generate his next words, Draco sat down at the table again. Seeing that Harry was going to press the matter, Draco decided to dig up the truth – not his favorite strategy, but sometimes the most effective. "Besides, it only worked then because those versions of me wanted you to hurt them. _I_'m not gonna open that fucking Pandora's Box."

Potter took his seat too, mortified by Draco's revelation. He had suspected, of course, due to the nature of his interactions with the other Dracos, but it wasn't anything he wanted to admit to or even consider for very long. It certainly didn't reflect very well on him that he had been so willing to participate is such an arrangement. Had the other Harry honestly wanted to hurt his partner, or did he just want to be with Malfoy in any way possible? He couldn't say, as Harry hadn't had the benefit of insight into his other selves, not like Malfoy had.

Draco had begun eating and wasn't even looking at him when Harry fell heavily into his seat and finally managed a weak, hoarse answer, "I don't want to hurt anybody, Draco. Especially not you."

Draco snorted slightly in disbelief, returning his gaze to Harry with a raised, skeptical eyebrow. Who was he kidding? They had spent the last five years hurting each other. Still, perhaps sensing Harry's doubts, Draco's reply did not challenge the Gryffindor's claim. "Perhaps not. . . Harry." The name sounded foreign from his lips, prompting him to wipe them quickly with his napkin. "But that's the only way any sort relationship could work between us."

Now it was Harry's turn to be confused and genuinely upset. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Draco took ages to finish chewing another bite of meatloaf, his mind spinning: how much to tell Potter, how much to trust him, how much he wanted him to know. . . Finally, he swallowed, and carefully broached the subject that just minutes ago he had berated Harry for even thinking of. "Think about it. Given my. . . history, of which we will never speak again, you can imagine that I might be kind of fucked up the whole. . . relationship department. I've always known this, but these past few days have proven it to me, as they should have proven to you as well. I'm not gonna bog myself down with such unhealthy crap. I've enough on my plate. If you remember correctly, this is not the only universe where I have chosen this path."

Draco returned his attention to his food, while a painful swelling formed in Harry's throat. A rejection would have preferable to such a logical elimination; it was like their feelings didn't even _matter_. "You didn't say anything about us hating each other," he vocalized meekly, but he knew that the small hole he found in Draco's defense would do nothing against his larger argument.

Draco looked up again, considering Harry for a moment. The gangly, messy-haired teen was right: despite professing his hate just minutes ago (for which he now felt moderately ashamed), it hadn't even occurred to him as a reason why they could never be or whatever. Somewhere, during the trauma of the last nine days, the deep-seated loathing between had faded, so all that remained was a superficial and transient hatred. At the moment, Harry looked so despondent that Draco decided to forgo another declaration of hatred. Instead, he just shrugged and said indifferently, "You're okay, Potter. Interfering, but you have your moments."

This time, when Draco returned to his meal, Harry gradually started in on his. He bowed his head and fought back the tears that prickled his eyelids, trying to cool the heat of pain in his chest. He told himself that Draco was right: that now there were more crucial issues at stake; that not only was Draco probably too messed up for a healthy relationship, but in all likelihood so was he.

Harry had only made it through half of his meal by the time Draco had finished. The Slytherin stood and glanced at the door. "I'm going to go talk with Snape, why don't you come down when you're done?"

Harry nodded without looking up and Draco moved away from the table, but stopped before leaving. He was honestly surprised at how hard Potter was taking his rejection. Surely the Boy Wonder couldn't care that much? Draco wanted to kick himself as he felt his resolve wavering; no one of any quality had ever wanted anything to do with him. If Potter was still willing to help him, then maybe it was only fair to give him a chance. . . Draco diverted his mind from that line of thinking, but it was too late. He sighed, causing Harry to look up at him morosely. "Listen, Potter. . . Harry. Don't be all upset, we just got back from some seriously fucked-up experience, I don't think we should jump into anything. We'll figure it out, okay?"

The blonde departed for the dungeons and Harry was left wondering if Draco meant to give him hope with those last words.

! CHAPTER END !

Yikes. That chapter was long without much plot advancement (cringe). I'm having some difficulty realistically shifting to the "real" universe. I am thinking of transitioning into a hard-core war fic right about now, at least for as long as it takes to develop the HP/DM relationship and possibly to kill Voldemort. What thinketh thou? PLZ REVIEW!


	21. Day 10, part III: Convention of Snakes

Disclaimer: HP & Co. are property of JK Rowling filthy rich enterprises.

Reviewers: THANK YOU! Every little review matters, however insignificant. Enjoy this next chapter, it is dedicated to you who have reviewed.

Ch. 21: Day 10, part III: Convention of the Snakes

Once Malfoy had left, it was a relief to be able to sit alone in silence. Harry finished eating, but still he sat, staring sightlessly at Draco's empty plate. Now that he actually had a moment to himself, he realized how burnt out he was. The last nine days had been emotionally grueling, between the stress of having to get home and the rather disturbing discovery of his feeling for his ex-nemesis, and his fatigue prompted doubts as to whether or not he would be able to cope with this next challenge.

He wished suddenly that Ron was there with him say that everything would be okay, and Hermione to assure him that she would help him sort everything out. 'Cause right now, he really didn't know, and the haunting solitude allowed a daunting fear to grow. He felt ill-equipped for war. What did he know of fighting evil megalomaniacs and their dark henchmen? No more than what he had gleaned in five years of near death experiences, and what Dumbledore had shown him in his pensieve; and that wasn't much.

With a sigh of frustration, Harry stood and left the kitchens. He didn't particularly want to return immediately to Malfoy's oh-so-pleasant company, but he pushed his tremulous feelings deep within. Malfoy was dead right: there was much to be done, plenty of responsibility to go around, and now was no time to be distracted by transient puppy lust (or whatever it was between them). This was WAR. People had died, people he had cared for, and many more were going to die. _This _was going to be the worst experience he would ever be subjected to, of this he was sure, and in a few months the _Tempus Quaero _adventure would be just another episode in a never ending series.

The talking-to did wonders, and by the time Harry arrived at Snape's quarters, he sported a grim, determined expression that only a fool would have crossed. If war demanded fighters, leaders, and heroes, well then he would be all three. He would be victorious or die trying; and if the latter was the case, then he would make his death as costly as possible.

He rapped loudly on the door, and there was a long pause before it creaked open slightly to reveal a sliver of Snape's body and one glaring eye. "It is neither safe nor permitted for you to wonder the halls alone, Potter," the unbearable git reprimanded.

"I wouldn't be if Malfoy had waited for me to finish eating," Harry growled, _really _not in the mood for Snape's malicious bullshit.

"There's a war going on, Potter, if you hadn't noticed. Time is of the essence," came the sneered reply.

Harry saw red and he was barely able to restrain the urge to clock the potions master. "Let me in, or I'm leaving," Harry hissed, finding no difficulty in tapping his inner darkness. "I've got better things to do than talk to _you_. As you said, time is of the essence."

With that, he pushed open the door and, surprisingly, Snape let him, though he looked like he was on the verge of committing bloody murder – but that was acceptable, because Harry felt like doing just the same thing.

He must have spent longer sitting in the kitchens than he had thought, for in Snape's study, several students had already congregated; specifically, Blaise Zabini, Millicent Bulstrode, Pansy Parkison, Theodore Nott, and a half dozen seventh years whose names uncertainly flashed through Harry's mind. Couches had been extended to fit everyone, with Malfoy standing, now turned around to witness Harry's entrance. His arched eyebrow asked what exactly had taken Harry so long, but he was the only one who bore such a neutral expression. The rest of the Slytherins looked even more hostile than Snape, and far more suspicious.

"Potter," Malfoy said tonelessly in greeting, turning back to his audience.

"Malfoy," Harry replied, and came to stand next to Malfoy, his right hand resting on the wand in his robes and feeling distinctly nervous in this company, especially with Snape's odious presence hovering behind him. What exactly was he supposed to be doing here? These snakes looked as likely to bite him as talk to him. Malfoy, however, was very much in his element, and he knew exactly how to play his housemates.

"Here's your chance," Malfoy stated challengingly. "Kill him."

Harry whipped out his wand, his mouth falling open and eyes widening in shock. The Slytherins looked almost as taken aback, but did not move. When it became apparent that none would, Harry hazarded a glance at Malfoy, who stood perfectly still and perfectly poised, a cold expression on his face. For a moment Harry thought he was looking at the blonde's father. Had he miscalculated? Was this Draco Malfoy Voldemorte's property, like the one he had encountered just yesterday? "What the hell, Malfoy?" he demanded, sounding every bit as angry and betrayed as he felt.

But Malfoy didn't even look at Harry. "Well? What are you waiting for!" he snapped. "If you want to join the Dark Lord, here is your chance to make an endearing impression!"

There was a long, tense silence before a bulky seventh year spoke up warningly, "Draco, Professor Snape is right behind you."

"So!" Malfoy snapped again, this time even more forcefully. "He's playing both sides anyway." There were a several gasps, and Harry swore he could hear Snape inhale sharply. What the HELL was going on? "Whatever happens here, he'll be able to play it to his advantage with one side or the other. So, get on with it. Kill Harry Potter, that's what it means to be on the Dark Lord's side."

Though Malfoy's words had Harry's nerves screaming, he suspected suddenly that they had purpose. Malfoy was, after all, significantly more intelligent than his actions generally suggested. Harry assessed the Slytherins before him. They looked nervous and stressed, and displeased to be in this situation at all, and he unwillingly felt a degree of empathy for them. They were not in such different positions from him.

Finally, Clairden (whom Harry recognized from Quidditch) spoke up. "It's Harry Potter for Merlin's sake, and he's got a wand pointed right at us. It would be suicide."

"SO!" Malfoy barked. "He will always be Harry Potter, he will almost always be armed, and you will never get better odds than thirteen to one! As for it being suicide, you know the Dark Lord would have absolutely no compunction about ordering you to your deaths. So, if you want to be a Death Eater, then be one! Right now! You will never get a better chance!"

Okay, so Harry could sorta see what Malfoy was trying to do, but he _really _did not appreciate being used as bait, especially without forewarning. Apparently, some of the Slytherins were beginning to understand what Malfoy was getting at too, for they were beginning to shoot their displeased glares at Malfoy instead of Harry.

This time it was Bultrode who responded irritably, "Why don't you kill him then, hmmm, Draco? If you think it's such a great idea?"

"Oh, I don't think it's a good idea at all, Mil. If fact, I think joining Voldemort is just about the worst, most dunderheaded, destructive, and all around ill-fated fad to have ever hit the Slytherin house."

Malfoy's audience shuddered at his use of You-Know-Who's name, but they just about died when he proclaimed his opinion of You-Know-Who's cause. They gawked at him, stunned to the point of being unable to react. He was, after all, Lucius Malfoy's son, and accepted by all to be imminently following in his father's footsteps.

And so long seconds passed, as the Slytherins tried to figure out if Draco was testing them, but Harry Potter's presence at his side suggested otherwise. Eventually, Pansy shook her head gently and spoke, "Draco, no one here wants to join the Dark Lord. You must already realize that if you have specifically brought us all here together. But if you've brought the bloody Boy-Who-Lived with you, then you are aiming for more than that, aren't you? You want us to fight on _his _side. Now, I can't speak for everyone, but I can't go against my family like that."

There were nods of agreement from the other Slytherins, and Harry felt his heart fall. It wasn't going to work. Malfoy, however, seemed barely phased. "Okay, fair enough. But then when Dumbledore releases everyone to go home, you must flee. You must never contact your parents, or any of your extended family. You must leave the country immediately and go into hiding, preferably somewhere remote and muggle. And if you are ever caught, you will have to kill yourself immediately." Of course, there were protests, but Malfoy was the sort of powerful speaker that demanded attention under any circumstance. "Don't give me that crap. You're not stupid. My father's in Azkaban, but his alliance still ties me to Voldemort. Even if your families' were inclined to allow you to remain neutral, the Dark Lord would _never_ give you such an option. Believing such foolishness will certainly get you killed."

"You don't know that, Malfoy," Clairden snapped, finally annoyed and scared enough to snap at the unofficial head of house.

Malfoy looked at his beater as though he was a particularly foul smear of feces. "Yes, I do," he spoke quietly and dangerously. His gaze stonily scrutinized at his housemates; then, in an abrupt movement, he yanked up his sleeve where the Dark Mark would have been. Instead, there was a thick scar running the length of his arm, from his wrist to his elbow. "Do you know what this is?" he demanded bitterly.

Whatever it was, it surely wasn't good, and Harry found himself warily shaking his head along with the other Slytherins. Though no one could see, only Snape was not surprised.

"This is what I got over the summer when I tried to convince the Dark Lord to let the seventh years return to Hogwarts, at least until the war broke out in earnest. My arguments were good, so here you all are and I am still among the living, but this is what I got for questioning his judgment."

His housemates looked uneasy, and Malfoy fixed each with his piercing gaze, before Zara (a quiet, reclusive seventh year that Harry could not recall _ever_ having seen before) asked the question that weighed on all their minds. "You expect us to trust Bumbledore and. . . _him_?"

She nodded at Harry, who frowned slightly, but he had firmly decided to leave the entire ordeal up to Draco, who had proven much more adept at handling the affair than he could have ever hoped to be. This time, however, Draco seemed somewhat at a loss, as it took him several ponderous seconds before responding. "Only a week and a half ago, I wouldn't have trusted either of them – not to help us anyway. But something happened to change my mind."

Draco paused dramatically, ever the manipulator of words and people. The Slytherins' attention was obviously peaked, and the nine day disappearance of their leader and the Gryffindor Golden Boy escaping no one's notice. "Voldemort was going to mark me last weekend." Strange how something once so terrifying was so easy to say. . . "I couldn't let that happen, but I had. . . _limited_ options available to me. So, I did something drastic. . . If it had worked, none of you would have ever seen me again. But it didn't work, and Harry here spent nine of the most fucked-up days ever trying to get us back. And then when we got back this morning, bloody Dumbledore is all acting like he knows I'm on his side, like he knows everything that happened. . . "

Draco's and Harry's eyes narrowed simultaneously, suddenly caught up in the implications of Draco's words. Both had been so used to everything being out of whack, plus the shock of the hearing about the attack, that they had barely realized the bizarreness of that particular aspect of the situation.

Behind them, Snape quietly cleared his throat (the Slytherins were beginning to look at them oddly) and Draco promptly got back on track. "So, to answer your question, no, I don't expect you to trust them. I expect you trust me, and. . . I can't believe I'm saying this, but I trust Harry fucking Potter," Harry glanced over sharply, pleased with the words whether they were true or not, "who in turn trusts Dumbledore. I know, it sounds like a chain of fools, but we are hardly in the position to be choosy, now are we?"

The Slytherins were completely deflated, which had probably been Draco's strategy in the first place: to remove every pillar of resistance and verbally beat them into compliance. Harry figured that the opportunity had finally arrived to say something that could actually assist in Draco's efforts. "A chain of fools? Well, then there really must be a separate god for fools and children, 'cause me, I've survived Voldemort in some form or another a total of, uh, six times. And Dumbledore, he defeated Grindenwald, _and _I've seen him fight off Voldemort at least once. I'd think we were pretty good options for allies, all things considered."

Draco turned to him and, for the first time since Harry had entered Snape's chamber, smiled. The Slytherins looked like they didn't know what was more unbelievable – that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were actually smiling at each other, or that they were considering (albeit reluctantly) aligning themselves with Dumbledore, Harry Potter, and a bunch of other people that they detested in no uncertain terms.

! BREAK !

In the end, there were two reasons that the Slytherins sided with Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore: because none of them wanted to fight for a genocidal megalomaniac, and because, after five years living with and being lead by Draco Malfoy, their bonds to him and their trust in him rivaled the bonds and trust that tied them to their own families. After some discussion in which Harry and Snape stood on the sidelines, a tentative agreement was reached to meet with Dumbledore and pledge their allegiance. Their rhetoric left open the possibility of backing out, but everyone knew that just by so considering their loyalties (and failing to kill Harry Potter), they had effectively made it impossible for them to join You-Know-Who. He would know of this exchange, and likely kill them before trusting them.

Draco and the Slytherins eventually decided to leave Snape's quarters and attempt to recruit a few more housemates who they considered possible converts, and Harry made sure to leave with them, having no desire to be alone with Snape at all.

Out in the dungeon corridor, Draco held back as the rest headed towards the common room. "Thanks, Potter."

Harry's smiled slightly, a little shaken by the entire ordeal. "It was nothing. You did all the work, and it was rather impressive if I might say so myself. You're quite the orator when you're not shouting, 'I'll get you next time, Potter'."

Draco's lips quirked gently in response. "Maybe. But they're still Slytherins. They never would have followed me if you hadn't been able to present a viable alternative."

Just this short, positive exchange was enough to lift Harry's spirits and calm his nerves somewhat. "Do you want me to come with?" he asked nodding in the direction Draco's housemates had gone.

Draco shook his head, looking suddenly grave. "I'm sure Dumbledore has a dozen things he wants you to do. Besides, it's house business now, we'll handle it. There won't be many more that we'll be able to recruit, especially not among the sixth and seventh years. Anyone younger than fifteen is probably safe – as safe as they can be anyway. . . As for those that we'll have to let return to their family," he added darkly, "well, lets just say I have a particularly Slytherin solution to that problem."

The way Draco said it made a shiver run through Harry's spine and reminded him that the blond prefect was much more dangerous, and devious, than he was wanted to believe. "What would that be?" he asked warily.

This time Draco really did smile, but it was neither attractive nor friendly. "You don't want to know, Potter, but you will definitely find out when the time was right."

And on that foreboding note, the two parted company.

! BREAK !

Harry returned to the Infirmary, supposedly to search out the Headmaster; but with Dumbledore, he tended to find you, not the other way around. Really, Harry wanted a few minutes with friends he hadn't seen in a week and a half. The alternate Rons and Hermiones had been relatively accurate versions of his own best friends, but it wasn't the same. _These_ were the versions who would be his crutches through this war, and who deserved an explanation for recent events.

He tried to sneak into the Infirmary without drawing attention to himself, with some degree of success before Hermione cried out, "Harry!" and wrapped her arms around him. Ron leaned out of bed to slap Harry's shoulder warmly, while neighboring students watched with interest.

It took a moment to placate Hermione's need to physically express her affection, then Harry sat himself cross-legged at the foot of Ron's bed and they all grinned at each other like fools. The past days had been so stressful for all of them that it was an elating and giddy relief just to be all together again, alive and for the most part unhurt.

"Jeez, Ron, you're in here more than I am," Harry joked, though of course it wasn't true, for no one was in the Infirmary as much as Harry. Underneath his good humor, he was worried to see Ron hurt _again_. If he continued at this rate, his odds of survival were not encouraging. "What happened anyway?"

"Aw, it's just a scratch, mate. Got hit by a stray hex that made it through the wards. You should have been there! It was wicked!" Ron gushed excitedly.

"Terrifying is more like it!" Hermione one scolded. "Everyone was scared witless. But you'd have been proud, Harry. All the DA members stood their ground and protected Hogwarts. And more than just being brave, they were _competent_." She looked smug for a moment, clearly taking some credit for the their preparedness, before switching tracts and frowning in concern. "But what about you, Harry? What on earth happened? Ron and I followed you to the dungeons, only to find you and Malfoy unconscious on the floor!

I did research on time-altering potions, but the professors wouldn't give us any information to go on."

Harry's face fell, and he didn't know how much to tell his friends. He felt as though a lifetime had passed and though he was someone else now, someone who no longer fit snuggly into this world. It was all he could do to remind himself that he had always felt this way, that he had never been normal, that he had never been a perfect fit.

"Hey, it's okay, mate. You know you can tell us anything," Ron assured, and Hermione nodded in concurrence.

Harry sighed and gestured for his friends to lean in closer. "You can't tell anyone, alright?" The two Gryffindors nodded, so he continued in a hushed voice, "Malfoy concocted this potion-spell hybrid thing that I still don't entirely understand, called the _Quaero Tempus_."

Ron's expression was blank, but Hermione had obviously heard of it before and gasped. "That's supposed to be a myth!"

Harry shrugged. "Well, it's not, believe me. And it was horrible, worse than facing Voldemort 'cause every moment of every day I was stressed and afraid that I wouldn't get back and just get stuck in some alternate world with a bizarre Draco Malfoy. Or even worse, traveling between worlds permanently."

At this point, both Hermione and Ron were confused as to what he was describing. Frustrated, he tried again. "Malfoy screwed up! Or rather, I interrupted him before he finished the potion, and we were both sent through fucked-up alternate realities, all Star Trek like. And I had to figure out how to get back, because Malfoy couldn't remember anything. Then I had to convince Malfoy to come back with me. It was totally whack, but Malfoy had it even worse. He was put through some really _horrible _things."

"Serves the git right," Ron growled, completely failing to pick up on the undercurrent of sympathy in Harry's tone.

"No one deserves to have that happen to them," Harry responded a little coldly, to Ron's surprise.

"So you convinced Malfoy to come back to this reality, after he took the a _mythical _potion to escape?" Hermione asked somewhat skeptically, interrupting the temporary tension between Ron and Harry.

Harry considered her words for a second, then nodded: that was about right. As if to challenge his claim, Hermione asked, "How did you convince Draco Malfoy to do anything? He hates you."

Harry grinned. "Not anymore."

Ron looked incredulous, but Hermione's expression was identical to Molly Weasley's when she reprimanded the twins for some harebrained prank. "Harry Potter. What have you done?" she demanded.

"Nothing much," he professed, falsely calm. "Just spent the morning with him, recruiting Slytherins to fight on our side."

Ron's jaw dropped open. "Have you lost your mind?" Ron whispered harshly. "They'll betray us in our sleep!"

Hermione wasn't offering any obvious support one way or the other, so Harry took it upon himself to make a stand for reason and tolerance. "Damn, Ron. That's exactly what's driving _Hogwarts students_ to become Death Eaters!" Harry explained irritably. "They don't want to join You-Know-Who, but they don't think there is any other option!"

"Of course there's an option! There's our side! The side of light and decency and stuff!" Ron's voice was beginning to grow louder and it pissed Harry off.

"Our side hates them!" he retorted shortly, cutting his friend short. "But we need them on our side, if only because we cannot afford to have them on the other side. . . I think we should give them a chance. Malfoy, uh, well," Harry began to stuttered and lowered his voice again, "He's really not all that bad."

"He's not so WHAT?" Ron bellowed, spurring Harry to grab his arm and hush him forcefully.

"SHHH! For Merlin's sake, Ron!"

"Don't shush me," Ron continued at a lower volume. "It's like. . . blasphemy."

Initially indecisive, Hermione rolled her eyes at the absurdity of that comment. "Oh, come on, don't be ridiculous, Ron. Harry's right, war's war, and we need every ally we can get. And if they're Slytherins, then we'll just make sure to keep an extra close eye on them," she informed diplomatically.

Harry nodded in agreement; he fully intended to keep a close eye on the Slytherin house generally, and one Slytherin in particular.

! CHAPTER END !

IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE: Obviously, this story is pre-HBP, as I started it almost a year ago. However, I am thinking of incorporating certain plot points from HBP, though clearly I will only be able to do so in such a way that is somewhat AU. Do you think that this is a good idea?


	22. D10 p4: Rolling Stones Gather No Moss

Disclaimer: HP & Co. are property of JK Rowling In Cash Incorporated.

Dear Readers, sorry it has taken me so long to update. I have been on vacation in Cambodia. Very exciting. Anyhoo, on with the show. Thank you for all your reviews.

Chapter 22: Day 10, Part IV: Rolling Stones Gather No Moss

Madam Pomfrey bustled over to Ron's bed, where Hermione and Harry sat with wide eyes. "Harry, the Headmaster is in his office. I know he wants to speak with you, you should hurry over. The password is Malteasers."

Harry exchanged meaningful looks with his friends, then spoke up, "I don't think it's safe to walk the hallways alone, Madam Pomfrey, could Ron and Hermione come with me?"

The mediwitch frowned, clearly picking up on the real purposes behind the Gryffindor's request. Still, the danger was very real, far more real than Harry in particular seemed to realize. Students had been injured in those hallways just a few days earlier; if the steadily weakening wards had failed then, there would have been a massacre. Pomfrey looked at Ron, aware that he was mostly healed, and that he was probably less at risk with Harry Potter than anywhere else in Hogwarts.

So she nodded, and the Golden Trio broke out wide grins. "But no dallying!" she instructed sternly, eyeballing Ron. "And you! I hope the seriousness of your injury underscores the seriousness on the situation. Next time, people will die."

The Gryffindors sobered immediately, and Harry shivered. He wished the teachers would stop mentioning the gravity of the situation as though he did not fully comprehend – of course he did, how could he not? It was _his _parents who had been killed by Voldemort, and _his _godfather. Was he wrong for not fretting constantly? He feared that he simply hadn't the perseverance of mind for such an undertaking: the best he could manage was usually just the situation at hand. Living in Voldemort's shadow for years, he had long learned that a fixation on the danger would only paralyze him with fear and drive him to derangement besides.

The three of them made their way through newly eerie hallways in silence, none able to break the atmosphere of dread that the normally comforting mediwitch had bestowed upon them. When they reached the gargoyle, Harry gave it the password and they were admitted to the stairs to Dumbledore's office. At the top, the door swung open slowly to reveal the odd old man sitting at his desk, using his quill to write quickly on a small piece of parchment. He looked up and smiled at them, but the smile was strained.

"Harry, Ron, Hermione. Good afternoon. Please, take a seat." As they sat, Harry noticed the Headmaster's eyes fleet over to his canister of lemon drops, but the usual question was not posed. Instead, he straightened and looked down at the Gryffindors through his spectacles. "Needless to say," he began abruptly, "War is upon us."

He paused, but when no comment was forthcoming, he continued, "For a long time, I have tried to protect you – all of you, of course, but you, Harry, in particular, because of the greater danger to you. Regretfully, I am no longer able to offer such protection, as the Hogwarts wards have been deteriorating since the attack, as was likely Voldemort's intention. Tomorrow morning, all underage students will return home, except for you, Harry, and those that explicitly request asylum and with true reason to fear harm or compulsion upon their return."

"You mean the Slytherins that Malfoy and I just met with," Harry muttered morosely. As if things weren't bad enough. . .

Ron frowned as he tried to comprehend exactly what had been said, but Hermione found her voice almost immediately, "I don't want to go home! The others are too young to fight, I agree, but Harry needs us!"

"What!" Ron exclaimed, understanding now, and jumping to his feet. "I'm not leaving Harry alone with Slytherins or anyone! I'm going to fight too!"

Dumbledore shook his head sadly, while Harry showed little reaction. "You may fight if given permission by your parents, but neither of you are yet of age to make that decision yourselves."

Hermione tried to speak, but Ron was too fast, and too angry. "Screw that! Who gives a shite about age! You said yourself, this is war! War! You-Know-Who will be using kids!"

He would have surely continued, but Harry's hand on his forearm was enough to shut him up and convince him sit back down, though he glared heatedly at the Headmaster.

"Please understand," Dumbledore attempted to sooth. "It is not because I doubt your capabilities or potential, but that I must maintain the loyalty of your parents. Of _all_ parents. Endangering children is a sure way to make enemies of former supporters, at least on our side of this ugly affair."

Hermione looked as though she had just bit into a particularly sour lemon: as distasteful as the logic was, it was indisputable. Of course, Ron couldn't have cared less for logic, though even he realized just how upset his mother would be if he were join up to fight. "We are _not_ children," he huffed, but he was grasping as straws.

"We are according to wizarding law," Hermione said, with a sigh of resignation. "And we are the one who are defending the current establishment."

Dumbledore nodded again. "When you turn seventeen, we will of course welcome you, for you are needed; but for now, your possible deaths are greater liabilities than the potential value of your efforts."

Ron's anger was deflating into distress, but still he tried to protest, "What about Harry! Does nobody care that he is underaged! He –"

"Stop," Harry said, finally, turning towards his best friend. "You know why I'm staying, Ron. Please don't make this more difficult."

Both Ron and Hermione looked noticeably distraught at his nonchalance. "We'll be seventeen soon, Harry. We'll be with you before you know it," Hermione tried, but the words sounded hollow even to her.

"Sure, if the war isn't over by then," Ron retorted irritably.

Harry looked away from them, at Dumbledore's weary expression and his dull eyes. The great man seemed as drained of hope as he himself was, and they two were supposed to be the ones to defeat Voldemort? "If this war goes as disastrously as I expect, you'll be fighting next to me sooner than you think."

And there was nothing to be said to that.

After a long, heavy pause, the Headmaster spoke, "Hermione, Ron, could you please excuse us so that I may speak to Harry in confidence?"

So the two departed, feeling both relief and anxiety, leaving Harry and Dumbledore to sit in pensive silence. Though separated in age by many decades, they had never been so connected to one another as they were now, bonded by their similar roles in war. Eventually, the old man spoke, "You are right in your pessimism, Harry. Many will die in this war, as some are dying _right now_. Death Eaters are raiding houses, killing and taking prisoners who they will use as soldiers under the _Imperius_. When the students are returned home, many families will go into hiding. Just within the last few days, most businesses in Diagon Alley and Hogsmead have shut, though people have been too afraid to visit these places for months. The wards at Hogwarts are deteriorating, poisoned during the raid, so that it will have to be abandoned by all who chose not to go home. The attack on Hogwarts was a symbol, Harry, and its closing a message that no one is safe. The Ministry is weak, and likely to be attacked and/or closed any day now. Then, people were start joining Voldemort voluntarily, just to be on the winning side."

Harry was finding it hard to breathe, and a lump had swollen in his throat. Of course, he knew what war meant, but it was so much more real to hear it spelled out like this. How had everything spiraled out of control so quickly? He had been unconscious for a week and a half, and look what had happened! If he were to die, would there truly be no hope? That is what the prophesy meant, right!

Harry choked back a suffocating sob, but it was no use. A few tears fell from his eyes. "I don't know," he sniffed hoarsely, "if I can do this. . . how am I supposed to. . . ?"

Dumbledore looked upon him kindly. "You are not alone, Harry. There are many good people who will fight beside you. We have love, and goodness, and trust, and faith, and caring – all on our side. Voldemort is barely human anymore, and knows nothing of these. "

Unwillingly, Harry smiled at the tackiness and the absurdity of the situation. "So I'm going to kill Voldemort with mushy feelings," he joked weakly, as he wiped his eyes with one hand, and his running nose with his other.

Dumbledore smiled faintly, though it did not reach his eyes. "Your mother did."

And died trying, Harry thought, without voice. Instead, he steeled his mind once again, sniffed one last time, and nodded.

For a moment, the old Headmaster studied the teenager before him: Harry was indeed strong of heart, soul, mind, body, and magic, just the qualities needed if he was to destroy Voldemort; but he was young, and the task nearly impossible. There was much work to be done if he was to have any chance at all.

"Harry, have you ever heard of a Horcrux?"

! BREAK !

Meanwhile, in the dungeons of the castle, another teen and his mentor were also discussing the war. Draco sat motionless, his arms draped along the arms of his easy chair, and his eyes cast down to the fireplace in Severus' quarters. Less than two meters away, the potions professor sat in his armchair, also facing the fire, but discreetly studying his favorite student. It was for him that Severus had straddled the fence of loyalties for so long; alas, time was running out, and soon he would be forced to accept the irrefutable fate he had chosen for himself a lifetime ago. Now, all that was left was to push his godson as far as possible in the other direction.

Eventually, the marked man spoke, "Dumbledore will just let the others leave, so that they may be met again on the battlefield. If they are not to make it that far, it will be up to you."

Draco continued to stare at the hypnotic flames, mind spinning without emotion; eventually, he nodded slowly. "I know. I have just the. . . arrangement."

"Don't tell me," Severus commanded, unnecessarily – Draco was well aware of the precarious balance of his godfather's loyalties, just as he knew that the Dark Mark had assured the potions professor no choice but to serve Voldemort, no matter how he might twist and push the boundaries of that service. Still, Snape felt an uncharacteristic need to give voice to that which had never been explicitly voiced. "I will not be beside you during these times, Draco. From here on out, you are alone."

Again Draco nodded, this time looking up at the man who had been more of a parent to him than his own hated, feared, and (regrettably) loved father. Severus was both hurt and relieved to find them as closed as ever. "I know."

Severus racked his brain for any parting advice with which to leave his godson, wishing he had made better decisions during his life so that he could serve as something other than an example of what _not_ to do. "Don't forget what you have learned, not just from me, but from Lucius as well. It will serve you well, if only in knowing the enemy. Dark magic has its uses, especially when the sacrifices demanded by Light magic are unacceptable."

Again staring at the fire, Draco tensed at the mention of his father, but so slightly that it would not have been noticed by anyone unaware that it was the standard, reflexive response. "How could I ever forget?" he asked bitterly. He had been so thoroughly drilled in Dark magic that it would be hard to conceal his training from 'his' side.

Unseen, Severus' usually severe expression melted into one of regret and sorrow. He was passed beating himself up over _one _bad decision, made decades ago, but the pain still flared anew every time he was confronted with his inability to save his godson from a life steeped in darkness, fear, and suffering. In a momentary lapse in reserve, he snapped angrily, "I'll kill him if I ever have the chance."

Uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation, Draco stood abruptly and turned toward the dark haired man. "You never will," he said shortly. Draco had never been one much for introspection, and as far as he was concerned, preoccupation with one's _feelings _(even in his thoughts the word was spat out) would likely get one killed.

Severus got to his feet as well, hating the pain the his dark heart could only feel around Draco. He clasped the blonde's arm, then pulled him into a stiff embrace, for neither was accustomed to physical proximity that was not unwanted and, often, agonizing in one way or another.

They drew apart and looked at each other as if for the last time. Draco stepped away from the fireplace, and Severus proffered his parting words, "Take care of the Slytherins, no one else will. You are taking quite a risk by siding with Dumbledore's Gryffindor lot. Some hate us almost as they hate the Dark Lord."

Draco nodded briefly, opening the heavy door, then turned around to take a final look at his mentor. He would miss his head of house, he knew, but he could not have suspected how much. "See you on the other side."

Then Draco was gone.

! BREAK !

When Dumbledore escorted Harry from his office, the latter's head was so full of new information that he hardly knew where to begin his mental digestion. The Headmaster had shown him hours worth of memories, mostly providing insight into Voldemort's upbringing, but Harry was largely unsure as to what he was supposed to glean from these. It was apparent that the psycho creep had not had an ideal upbringing, but this was hardly an excuse for the atrocities he had committed. Harry knew that he would be up late for many nights in the future, reliving every aspect of these memories, searching for any weakness that could be exploited.

As for the information about the horcruxes, Harry figured he would cross that bridge when he came to it. Horcuxes or not, Voldemort still needed to be destroyed – and the sooner the better, before he could kill however many more. He would deal with preventing his resurrection further down the line. AN: My spin, not necessarily JKR's meaning; still, he was destroyed before, so not entirely unreasonable. Has anyone else noticed logical flaws in her set up?

Entering the Great Hall, Dumbledore and Harry were greeted by a great applause of what appeared to be the entire student body (save those still in the infirmary), as well as most of the staff. Even the house elves apparated in to cheer and clap.

Harry felt mortified. What on Earth were they applauding him for! For regaining consciousness! But, of course, he already knew the answer: they were cheering because he had survived to lead the current fight against You-Know-Who. They clapped because all their hopes rested on him.

With a grimace on his face, he weakly waved. Some leader he was going to be, he could barely stand before of a crowd without feeling nauseous. He located Ron, Ginny, and Seamus whooping excitedly at the Gryffindor table, and he allowed it to ease his nerves somewhat.

Self-consciously, he followed Dumbledore onto the teachers' stage, then stood in front of the table. Withdrawing his wand from his robes, he muttered, "_Sonorus_," then pointed the wand at his throat.

The din died down, and students sat, attention raptly focused on the Boy-Who-Lived. Dumbledore had been right, they really did want reassurances from _him_, even the ones who had taken turns disliking, distrusting, and envying him.

"STUDENTS OF HOGWARTS!" he shouted, the amplifying spell deafening everyone so that most clamped their hands over their ears. Harry cringed at his typically poor beginning, but he pushed himself to continue at a more bearable volume, "Students of Hogwarts! I'm sorry that I wasn't beside you during the attacks! Believe it or not, I was the victim of a potions accident!" Laughter sprinkled the Great Hall, and Harry was unable to stop his eyes from flickering over to where Draco sat with the Slytherins, looking as severe as ever – but was that a hint of amusement tugging at his lips?

"I'm glad you can laugh! You're gonna need it! You're gonna need every bit of happiness and courage and hope you can muster! Me, I would never have made it this far without my friends to watch my back! Terrible times lie ahead for everyone! For both sides! People will die: family, friends, enemies! Maybe even you! You need to be strong! You need to be strong and brave to make the right decisions! Voldemort-" Harry barreled on despite the gasps of shock and fear, trying to remember Dumbledore's suggested outline for his speech, "Voldemort preys on fear and weakness! It is the fearful and the weak that give in and become his servants! I have seen them and fought them! Some are pure evil, but most are just weak and stupid! Some are just sniveling rats! Literally!"

Again, there was nervous laughter, but Harry was deadly serious. "Some of you will fight beside me, and we will save Britain for us, for her people! Others of you will go into hiding, to rebuild our society when the fighting is over! For we will need that too! Those who die will be remembered as heroes! And those who follow Voldemort will ROT IN HELL!"

A thunderous uproar of approval erupted from his student audience, and Harry smiled a little to himself. Not quite what Dumbledore requested, but Harry was quite impressed and chuffed by his performance. He hadn't thought he had it in him.

And maybe that was the key to this whole war.

! BREAK !

After Harry's short opening speech, Dumbledore broke the news to the student body: the castle wards were weakening and so Hogwarts was to be abandoned shortly; furthermore, the next morning everyone would be returning home, except for those over sixteen who wished to enlist, and those who were justifiably seeking asylum.

As expected, there was a great outcry of anger amongst the fifth and sixth years, particularly from the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables (Slytherin was suspiciously quiet). Young ones at every table were crying.

Harry was glad when Dumbledore stopped talking – he had really had enough of the old man's verbosity for one day. He wolfed down some chicken and mashed potatoes, and left the Great Hall as soon as possible. The appeals of his housemates to let them fight only underscored the fact that he had no decisions to make, Dumbledore would make them all. He was just the muscle. . . sort of.

He went to bed early, because he was exhausted from the long day, and to escape the hounding of his housemates and two best friends. Sleep came quickly, but was restless and plagued with strange dreams of trench warfare, mass graves, and the perverse home life of Voldemort's hideous mother.

He woke suddenly, shivering and covered in sweat, with no capacity whatsoever to return to sleep. He padded into the bathroom instead to take a shower, but found himself waylaid at the mirror. Leaning against the sink, he inspected himself: he looked weary and stressed and miserable, much how he felt. He ran a hand roughly through his hair, and turned towards the shower with a sigh of resignation.

Under the beating hot rain of water, Harry lost all sense of time, so that he had no conception of being there for over an hour. His mind circled through everything that he had learned from Dumbledore, everything he knew about Voldemort, everything he knew about wizarding wars. . . and then it circled through the knowledge again, anxiously and obsessively.

It wasn't until his forth time through these topics that he forced himself to stop. At this rate, he'd drive himself crazy before he even had a crack at destroying Voldemort, he knew better than to dwell on such matters. He forced himself to think of something else, of Ron and Hermione, of Sirius and Lupin, of Ginny and the Weasleys, but all topics seemed to lead back to Voldemort and war.

Finally, Harry allowed himself to think of a topic he had been avoiding for fear of distraction; but now he needed distraction, so he thought about the last week and a half. Of course, Draco was featured prominently in these memories. Harry had been _shot at_, for Merlin's sake; he had planted a bomb in a chest cavity; he had been drag racing in a _Lamborghini_; he had. . . lost his virginity. He wondered if it still counted – he had lived through the experience, but it had not been this body. Indeed, maybe it had been his other body that had been so turned on by Draco, leading to the whole de-virginizing experience; maybe that body had been under a love potion like Voldemort's father; maybe this body did not even find Draco attractive.

He was quickly relieved of these irrational notions when he noticed, quite abruptly, that his dick had grown hard. Hesitantly, conflicted as to what he wanted, and unsure if he was ready for it in the _real_ world, he grasped himself tightly, then gasped at the relief it brought. He was so tense, so tormented, he barely cared who he was thinking of – but of course, he was thinking of the infuriating blonde, with his soft white skin, and his pink lips; his fit body, and taunt muscles; his broad, smooth back, and his firm buttocks. . . so tight and hot –

Think spunk spurted into his hand, and Harry leaned back against the tile wall to catch his breath. Gradually, the relief faded and was replaced by a profound feeling of uncleanliness, despite skin that had been beaten red and raw by the steaming water. He wondered if Lucius Malfoy felt the same attraction for his son as he did, if Lucius masturbated to images of his son's body too. . . He hated himself for even thinking such thoughts, and he bit his lip hard until the urge to scream and hurt himself passed.

Why was he punishing himself like this? He had to be strong, and of sound mind, if he was going to win this war.

! CHAPTER END !

Ug, sorry it is taking so long to transition. But never fear, crazy action will begin again with the next chapter. I am also pleased to announce that I have a relatively detailed plot planned out for this second half of the story, so I do not foresee the fic abandonment that has plagued my previous works. Still, encouragement would be appreciated, so PLEASE REVIEW!


	23. Day 11, Part I: Into the Wastelands

Disclaimer: HP & Co. are property of JK Rowling N Cash, Inc.

THANKS FOR THE REVIEWS! Keep 'em coming, and I'll keep the chappies coming. I am particularly intrigued by SACHA, who submitted a review in German. I had babelfish translate, with some success, but I am sorry to say that I do not actually speak/read any German. Now French I could probably handle, maybe even a little Italian. . . Anyhoo, on with the show.

Chapter 23: Day 11, Part I: Into the Wastelands

The next morning was pandemonium in the Gryffindor tower, as it was in most of the school. The boys in particular had failed to thoroughly pack the night before and were now doing so at the last moment. Many of the youngest years were crying for fear of leaving the safety of Hogwarts, and for fear that they and their friends may not all live to see each other again. The seventh years who had opted to decamp with Dumbledore did not make matters any better with their rowdy war cries and excited posturing. Harry was particularly aggravated by their behaviour: they were really acting like idiots, and hadn't a clue as to the true, and atrocious, nature of war. Surely it wouldn't be very long before someone _they _knew and cared for died, then their laughter would be silenced, maybe permanently.

"You look just like two ogres. What's with the Snape-scowling?" Ron asked, dragging his trunk into the common room.

Hermione nodded towards two seventh years, Darva and Will, that were pretending to punch and kick one another. "Boys are the same everywhere. They all glorify fighting, until the day that they are actually in a fight."

Her words reflected Harry's own thoughts quite accurately, but Ron just rolled his eyes. "Whatever, 'Mione. You wish as much as me that we weren't leaving Harry."

Harry met the redhead's eyes and they exchanged a sad smile. "It'll be alright, mate," Ron continued, trying to sound confident. "There isn't anyone better qualified to get rid of You-Know-Who than you. I bet some of my brothers have signed up, so you'll have good people watching your back. We'll be seventeen, and back beside you, before you even know it."

Harry tried to smile again, but it was too hard; the last thing he wanted was for his friends to be fighting, and possibly dying, beside him. Impulsively, he threw his arms around Ron and hugged him tightly. "Thank you," he choked out. "You've been a good friend, Ron. . . the best."

They drew away, both trying (successfully) to maintain their manliness by not crying. "It's not good-bye, mate. Just. . . see you later."

At that moment, Professor McGonagall strode in, and began ushering the departing students out of the Gryffindor common room. Harry quickly turned to Hermione, who didn't hesitate to throw her arms around him. "Oh, Harry! Please be careful! Don't go doing anything foolhardy, and getting yourself hurt! Or worse!"

Hermione squeezed him, and Harry returned the pressure. "I won't. You take care of yourself too, and Ron as well if you can."

Finally, Hermione drew away, the only one of the Golden Trio freely able to sport tears in her eyes. "I'll figure some way to help, even from the sidelines. Dumbledore left some books on my bed that might be of use."

Harry smiled at Hermione's display of typical behaviour. "If anyone can find an answer in a book, it's you."

Now McGonagall was ushering out the fifth and sixth years, who were calling out farewells to Harry, and wishes of good luck – and good hunting. "Kill a death eater for me!" Seamus exclaimed, waving as he hauled his trunk through the door.

"You can do it, Harry!" Ginny cried out as she bustled after Dean.

Then was hardly anyone left in the common room, and it was time for Hermione and Ron to follow their housemates. Hermione was openly crying at this point.

"Goodbye," she whispered, before turning and walking away with a determined stride.

"Later, Harry," Ron said casually, but the weight of the moment could not be reduced by flippancy. Reluctantly, he too turned and departed, leaving Harry alone with a handful of now solemn seventh years.

"Goodbye," he mouthed silently.

! BREAK !

Shortly after, all the remaining students had gathered, with their trunks, in the Great Hall. Harry quickly scoped out who was staying – five adults (Dumbledore, Hagrid, Pomfrey, McGonagall, and Hooch), eight Gryffindors (excluding himself), five Ravenclaws (including Cho, he noted with some interest), four Hufflepuffs, and a whopping sixteen Slytherins. Despite having just yesterday been in conference with all but four of the Slytherins, Harry was still impressed that so many had actually chosen to fight beside Dumbledore, and rather concerned to note that the four he had not seen in Snape's quarters were almost certainly fifth years.

Of course, the seventeen members of the other three houses were rather shocked and appalled to discover that Slytherin was making up nearly half of the total number of students that were not returning home. Indeed, many were glaring angrily and suspiciously at them, and whispering noisily and snidely that they certainly did not believe the snakes trustworthy in the least. The block of Slytherins, on the other hand, stood stiff and silent, eyes and ears taking in everything, as though they were already soldiers; Bulstrode in particular appeared ready to kill someone with her bare hands. Meanwhile, Dumbledore was conversing with the teachers instead of addressing the dissention that was rapidly growing amongst his recruits. Surely he was aware of what was going on, why wasn't he intervening?

"Shut up!" Harry found himself demanding crossly, and loudly, and everyone's attentions instantly turned to him. Harry was surprised that he had said anything at all, but was too pissed not to continue now. "I don't want to hear any more public slander against fellow students! All it does is create problems! The Slytherins have better reasons to be here than most of you lot! And they have no where else to go! The moment they leave Dumbledore's protection, betrayal or not, Voldemort will kill them!"

The Slytherins remained impassive, but Harry could sense their approval – and Dumbledore's as well. After all, if he was going to be a leader, he would have to lead. Most of the other students looked somewhat cowed by the telling-off, but of course one ballsy Gryffindor just _had_ to comment. "And what if one of them is a spy?" he asked, with blatant disrespect.

Harry could barely believe the seventh year's gall; he had to be stupid to get on _his_ bad side on the eve of war against Voldemort. He fumbled for a response, but Draco beat him to it, "Then that person will be executed, and the same is true if one of you is a spy. The punishment for treason or espionage during wartime is death by the Killing Curse. Torture is not condoned, but can be arranged in order to determine what has been leaked, and any other information that might prove useful."

His cool, matter-of-fact delivery left no doubt that, if necessary, _he_ would be willing to conduct the torture and execution. Actually, it was a little disturbing, and the only ones not alarmed by his words appeared to be his fellow housemates. Even Dumbledore felt it was time to interrupt, "Hopefully it will not come to that. Torture would make us little better than Death Eaters, but Mr. Malfoy is right, the penalty for treason or espionage during times of war is death. Mr. Potter is also right, the Slytherins have good reasons for being here and I would not have let them stay if they had not. I would encourage tolerance, if not acceptance, as discord within the ranks can only hurt our common cause."

The old headmaster paused, looking at his students as though peering straight into their souls. "As of this morning, you are no longer my students. You are recruits of the Order of the Phoenix, in allegiance with the Ministry of Magic and their small army of Aurors. Once you have passed through training, you will be considered soldiers of the Order of the Phoenix, and be expected to fight loyally beside one another, and to die if necessary. If you haven't the stomach for these responsibilities, then it is still not too late to change your mind – though you are unlikely to find much better in the civilian realm. However, if you depart today with myself and the other professors, you will be taken to a military camp, and any attempt to leave without explicit orders or permission will be considered desertion and be treated as possible treason. If any do not feel that they are up for what is to follow, now is the time to speak."

There was a long, uneasy pause in which the Hogwarts students eyed one other curiously and warily, as if to weed out any individual too weak for war.

Not a single student spoke up, and Dumbledore looked pleased. "Very well, recruits. Your first assignment is to abandon your trunks. They will not be needed where we are going. You are permitted to bring three items of personal value, in addition to your wand and the robes you are wearing. Provisions will be supplied upon arrival at camp."

There was some minor groaning from one or two of the recruits, but most took to the assignment in stride: they knew they were to be soldiers, _warriors_, and none had been fool enough to expect pampering.

Harry barely needed to consider what he wanted to bring. He opened his trunk and dug out his invisibility cloak, the scrapbook containing pictures of his parents, and the two way mirrors given to him by Sirius (which he had never used, but cherished nonetheless). Stuffing them into his school satchel, he looked up to see that everyone was taking substantially longer to deliberate over which items they should bring – except for Draco, who stood tightly gripping only one personal affect: an ornate dagger. Harry frowned, vaguely recalling an alternate universe in which the blonde had used a ceremonial dagger to stab his father dozens of times. Was this one and the same?

Draco caught Harry staring, and their eyes never parted as the former slipped the dagger into his robes. Then the Slytherin grinned mischievously, and Harry smiled back weakly, torn between the thrilling way Draco's face had lit up, and his general freakiness. Harry just didn't feel entirely comfortable fancying someone so obviously disturbed. And if not disturbed, well. . . Harry was a poor student of psychology, and had some difficulty understanding Draco's sometimes oscillating and often antagonistic behaviour – not that his libido or his emotions seemed to depend on any understanding _at all_.

Shortly thereafter, the recruits were ordered into five groups of six or seven, which inconveniently required two Slytherins form a group with recruits from the other houses. Reluctance was obvious all around, so Draco took the lead.

"Come on, Pansy," he stated, nodding away from where she was trying to be the eighth member of one of the all-Slytherin groups. Pansy scowled at her selection, but couldn't be surprised – with Vincent and Greg gone to join the Death Eaters, she was now his strongest supporter and closest friend. So she followed him as he moved towards the other groups, where two Hufflepuffs had failed to make it into one of the non-Slytherin groups. Harry was pleased, and instantly gave up his spot in the group that had magnetically materialized around him. Cho followed him (he didn't even _want_ to think about the implications of that!), they picked up the two free-floating Hufflepuffs, and they gathered around the Draco and Pansy.

Harry couldn't restrain the giddy smile that broke out on his face, however bizarre it must have appeared to everyone else. Draco, of course, was his usual unpleasant self and sneered, "Merlin, Potter, flash that shit-eating grin at the Dark Lord and you won't even need the Killing Curse."

Harry's expression quickly mutated into a hurt scowl, and Draco felt a little ashamed of what he had sorta intended as a greeting. He wasn't even sure himself why he was always such an asshole; it just felt, well, safe, and by now, natural. The matter was just made worse when Cho added her two cents. "Merlin, Malfoy," she imitated in a whiny voice, "show your ferret face on the battlefield and the Death Eaters might be incapacitated with laughter."

This time Draco's trademark sneer was replaced with a genuinely malicious glare, and he said the nastiest thing that came to mind. "Shut up, Chang, you dripping cunt. Suck Potter's dick on your own time, no one here wants to witness it."

Things were rapidly escalating out of control and only Pansy appeared amused; even Harry was offended by the Slytherin's words. "Stop it," he said calmly, but forcefully. "We're trying to get along here. If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."

Draco's lip curled in contempt. "How quaint. I think I preferred it when we weren't trying to get along." Fuck, it was as if he was helpless to stop the river of poison that spewed from him mouth! Was he trying to make Potter hate him!

Harry rolled his eyes, but he was growing both exasperated and irritated. What a bloody git. "Just ignore him," he suggested to Cho and the Hufflepuffs, but even his own mind retorted: yeah, right.

Draco hated the idea of being ignored, which is arguably one of the reasons he was always such an unbearable arsehole. Still, he bit his lip and forced himself not to care. What did it matter to him what a bunch of Gyffindorks and Hufflepoofs thought of him? He was here to kill him some Death Eaters and be free of his father's allegiances.

Pansy leaned closer and whispered, "Why don't we just ignore _them_? We can be, like, an independent squadron or something."

Draco turned to look at the smirking Pansy, brooding thoughts vanishing. Actually, it wasn't a half bad idea, especially considering that the Slytherins would be more willing to choose from a much wider and more dangerous selection of curses, hexes, potions, and magical weaponry. Taking the idea and running with it, Draco's own smirk gradually mirrored his housemate's.

"Pans," he said smugly, not even trying to whisper. "We're going to make a great team." She was certainly smarter and more intuitive than blasted Crabbe and Goyle, not to mention more attractive. It did sting a little to lose his childhood, and virtually lifelong, companions – but they were submerged too deeply in Death Eater culture, and without the personal fortitude and strength of character to escape as Draco was attempting to do. If there was one thing Draco had in spades, it was _character_.

Harry watched the exchange between Draco and Pansy with some jealousy, telling himself that he had no right to feel hurt that it wasn't _him_ who Draco considered part of his team; that the whole _Quaero Tempus_ affair did not entitle him to any sort of relationship with the fine Slytherin. He was relieved when his own brooding was cut off by the arrival of Madam Hooch, who was carrying what appeared to be a shoddy, unstrung squash racket.

"Recruits!" Hooch barked, doing an excellent impersonation of a drill sergeant. "This portkey will take us to the camp, and your new home, so put away your animosity long enough to gather around and take a hold on this muggle contraption."

Everyone grabbed the racket rim, Draco and Harry's gaze meeting and burning intensely, then they were all felt the pull on their navel that heaved them nauseatingly up through a magical vortex that literally dropped them –

Harry glanced around quickly. The other groups had also been transported, and all the recruits were looking a their surroundings. It was ridiculously, unimaginably cold, and flat, snowy ice stretched in frozen waves for as far as the eye could see, desolate and uninterrupted except for dozens of tiny tents and a handful of large tents that were barely discernable from their surroundings. A strong shiver racked Harry's body, and he caught sight of Pansy and Draco casting heating spells on one another. A profound feeling on loneliness swelled suddenly in his lungs: his friends were far away, and his only classmates in this austere land were a bunch of Slytherins that likely hated his guts.

Harry pulled out his wand and cast a heating spell on his clothes, then followed the professors and the recruits towards the collection of tents. At the perimeter, Dumbledore stopped and was met by a young man dressed in full-length, off-white wool robes; indeed, now that Harry was looking more closely, a few other, similarly dressed individuals could be seen standing guard around the perimeter of the encampment. After exchanging a few words with the centurion, Dumbledore turned to his former students. "Stand in single file to pick up your tents and provisions. You will then set up your tent within the boundary of the camp, and change into your uniform. At 1200 hours, report to the mess tent, which is that large one over there." He pointed to the pavilion in the centre of the encampment. "You will get further orders then."

Dumbledore turned to leave, and the recruits began filing past the centurion. Once in the perimeter, Harry watched closely to see how the ex-Hogwarts students were segregating themselves; and sure enough, the Gryffindor seventh years (with whom Harry was not very close) all found spots near each other, with the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs forming mini-groups nearby. The Slytherins, on the other hand, continued to walk through the camp, clearly scoping out potential locations. Eventually they selected an isolated area near the perimeter, which would give them plenty of privacy to conduct whatever nefarious activities they so wished. While Harry felt a little guilty for doubting them, it was not enough to counteract his suspicious curiosity. He certainly wasn't going to let that group of shady characters hide themselves in some hole, only to pop out at the worst time imaginable and lay waste to everyone else's well laid plans.

Reluctantly (and a little apprehensive of his own motives and reasoning), Harry strategically chose a spot sufficiently near the Slytherin group to keep an eye on them, and yet far enough away not to be blatantly intrusive. Still, Clairdon and Zabini glared at him as he set up his tent.

The tents were tiny. They had been magically enhanced so that the insides were slightly larger, but it certainly wasn't anything to write home about. Harry could barely stand within the tent's confines, and there was only room for a cot (resting on top of two shelves) and a small desk with a dim lamp. The outside was as white as snow, but the inside was a gloomy grey; the only good news was the thorough heating. Harry sighed, bending over to stuff his satchel into one of the shelves, then began to inspect the kit be had been provided with – toothbrush and paste, a comb, everlast deodorant, a watch, fours pairs of white underwear and socks, two pairs of thick white water-resistant pants, two thick white cotton shirts, one pair of heavy-duty boots, and one _very_ thick white robe with a hood. There was no mirror, but once he was changed, Harry figured that he almost certainly looked like a snowman. At least the hood hid his unruly hair.

At noon, all the recruits had congregated in the mess tent, where most were unnerved to find Alastor Moody eying them with contempt. "I don't think I've ever seen a more sorry group of recruits!" he barked. "Some of you can't be more than fourteen!"

Sadly enough, it was almost true: four of the Slytherins were only fifteen, and they looked particularly small in their heavy wool robes. "Never matter. This here is Camp C, which was set up three days ago to accommodate the influx of volunteers prompted by the attack on Hogwarts. There are thirty two other recruits who are at the practice range right now, but will be joining us shortly. Auror Mackin and myself are your drill sergeants. You will follow our orders, or be expelled from this camp to find your own way back to civilization. Is that clear?"

A spatter of pathetic affirmatives sounded, which clearly displeased the creepy Auror. "When you are asked a question, you are expected to answer. In this case, the appropriate response is, 'Yes, sir' or 'No, sir'. Is that understood?"

This time there was a chorus of "Yes, sir!" and Moody nodded gruffly. "Then you may eat! I suggest you do so hardily, for you will need the energy."

! END OF CHAPTER !

PLEASE REVIEW. What do you think? I know I am going slow, with lots of detail. Is it too slow and too much detail? Should I hurry the plot along? Are you bored? I'm hoping that the detail will compensate for outlandish plot jumps: am I succeeding? Whatever your opinions, the next chapter is almost completed, and should be up shortly!


	24. Day 11, Part II: A New Home

Disclaimer: HP & Co. are property of JK Rowling N Cash, Inc.

THANKS FOR THE REVIEWS! Sorry to the reviewer that thought I was going to slow. I will try to speed the story along, but there is only so much control I have over the muse within. Hey, at least I got the next chapter our quickly!

Chapter 24: Day 11, Part II: A New Home

The slop was not quite unappetizing, but those unaccustomed to the Dursleys' scraps clearly had more difficulty choking it down than Harry did. Harry sat at one of four long tables, which quickly filled up with recruits that until recently had been seventh year Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws (the large group of Slytherins managed to fill a table all on their own). Once again, Harry found himself in close proximity to Cho, who sat across from him making faces; it vaguely occurred to him that she was trying to flirt with him, but luckily her attempts were completely foiled by the obnoxious Gryffindor, Will, who insisted on engaging him in a conversation on how _exactly_ he had managed to escape You-Know-Who's clutches each and every time. Cutting off the questions proved impossible as several of the other seventh year recruits began listening with rapt attention, as if any word might possibly hold the clue to their own survival.

Just when he was reluctantly detailing the events at the end of second year, he was saved by the loud and excited entrance of the earlier recruits. Surprised, Harry recognized a handful of Hogwarts graduates, including Oliver Wood. Several people stopped by to introduce themselves to the Boy-Who-Lived, but he forgot all of their names almost instantly. Oliver gave a little wave, but was clearly more concerned with getting his own slop.

Then he heard an unexpected, but unforgettable unison of voices, "Harry!"

For the first time since arriving in the frozen wasteland, Harry grinned: George and Fred Weasley were just what this place needed to make it more. . . bearable. The twins both waved, then Fred made his way to the slop line, while George elbowed through several people, then squeezed in beside Harry.

"Hi-ya, Will," he greeted, then turned to Harry with a grin. "I knew it wouldn't be long before we saw you. You had us mighty worried when you dropped off the face of the earth like that. Wouldn't nobody say what was going on, Daily Prophet didn't know anything, as usual. And then the attack. . ." George's face fell for a moment, but then he started up again at a mile a minute. "That's why we joined. Figured with you gone, wasn't no one else who could protect our li'l Ronnikins."

Harry didn't even mind George's blabbering, it was such a comfort just to hear his familiar cadence. Smiling, he took another spoonful from his nearly empty bowl, and George half-grimaced, half-laughed. "I wouldn't finish all that if I were you, whatever Moody said. He told all of us to eat heartily when we got here, then everyone got severe indigestion when Mackin exercised us to death later."

Harry frowned and pushed the bowl away from him. "They probably thought it was some kind of survival lesson," Fred said with amusement, butting Cho (who appeared to paying rapt attention to the entire exchange) aside and plopping two bowls of slop in front of George and himself.

"So, how are Ginny and the bugger anyway?" Fred continued, concern obvious despite his flippant tone.

"Um, they're both okay. Ron was excited to have been able to fight. He was in the infirmary yesterday morning when I first saw him, but they let him out by afternoon. Besides that, I don't know, I didn't see much of Ginny, and I only woke up from my, um, potions accident yesterday morning."

"Potions accident?" George and Fred asked simultaneously, their gazes so sceptical that Harry knew he would have to give them more than that.

"Lets just say that it involved Malfoy."

"Of course," Fred snorted.

"Speaking of which-" George began.

"We couldn't help but notice-" Fred continued.

"The entirely freakish number of Slytherins over there-"

"Not to mention the ferret wonder himself."

Cho took the opportunity to inject, "Professor Dumbledore decided to allow anyone who needed asylum to fight, regardless of their age. And their loyalties apparently."

The twins glanced at her for a moment as though incredulous of her capacity to speak (she was cute sure, but was she still trying to patch matters up after last year!); Harry had even less of a conception as to how to deal with her. "Yes, well. In the days after the accident, I had to, uh, spend a lot of time with Malfoy. And, you're not going to believe me, but he's really not all that bad." Recalling the Slytherins behaviour just that morning, he added, "Sometimes, anyway."

By this point, the twins wore identical, open-mouthed expressions of disbelief.

"Okay, who are you-" Fred started, mocking poking at Harry with his spoon.

"And what have you done with Harry Potter?"

Harry chuckled, thinking that just a few days ago such a comment would have been quite on target. "Actually, it's funny you should say that. . . But seriously, Malfoy's the reason Dumbledore was able to recruit so many Slytherins to our side. And before you say what I know you're gonna say; no, I don't think they are going to betray us. If they were spies or whatever, they would have come in a smaller, less conspicuous group. I think there are so many of them because their only other choice is to become Death Eaters."

Beside them, Will snorted in disbelief, but the twins both nodded – they had seen more in the months since fleeing Umbridge's Hogwarts than even they could have imagined. It had become obvious to them that You-Know-Who had significantly more followers than could accounted for by wizards and witches that genuinely admired and supported the psychotic megalomaniac. Like every dangerous and powerful man before him, Voldemort had many minions who followed out of fear, not devotion. Even Cho seemed to grasp validity of Harry's argument, and glanced pensively at the Slytherin table.

But it wasn't enough. Harry found himself wanting his friends to _like_ Draco, despite the improbability of such an evolution; and more than that, he just wanted to talk about Draco, however and to whomever that was possible. So Harry continued on somewhat powerlessly. "Draco Malfoy is responsible for getting them to trust, well, me. And only by extension, I think, Dumbledore. If we hadn't been able to come to some agreement, I bet we would be meeting all of them on the battlefield someday."

George pushed away his plate. "Uh, all this talk of Malfoy is putting me off my meal."

Everyone else was quickly put off their meal by Moody roughly ordering them all to the practice fields. The twins shepherded Harry out of the mess tent, through the camp (pointing out their neighbouring tents), some distance past the perimeter, and then gathered around a singular tent, in front of which stood a tall, buff thirty-something that could only be Auror Mackin. He looked agreeable enough, if strong and big enough to break a human in two.

"Welcome, new recruits. I am Auror Mackin, and I will be your drill sergeant." As with all new acquaintances, Mackin's eyes found Harry's and his eyes flashed up where the famous scar that marred his forehead. "That means that I am responsible for turning you weak-bodied, weak-minded, and weak-willed weaklings into strong, sharp, and stubborn fighting machines. Your only responsibility for the time being is to show up on time, not get into any trouble, and follow the orders you are given. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Good. Those of you who arrived this morning have some catching up to do, so start by giving me five laps around the camp perimeter! The last five will be responsible for cleaning the toilets!"

Harry heard several groans, but paid no attention and instantly set off at a quick pace – an effort hindered by the difficulty of running on snow. Unfortunately for most, the Slytherins had been milling around at the back of the group and were in the best positions to dash back towards camp. Nevertheless, several of them were a long cry from being in prime physical condition, particularly a couple of the girls. Within the first lap, Harry and two other industrious Gryffindors had surpassed all but a handful of the Slytherin, and by the end of the third lap, only Malfoy and Nott were in front of him – many having fallen behind do to debilitating indigestion. But the week and a half of laying bed was taking its toll, and soon both Draco and Harry began falling back. A natural and accomplished runner, Draco took this particularly hard and redoubled his efforts, clearly pushing his limits by the fifth lap. By shear force of will, the blonde managed to finish his laps first, gasping for breath as his shaky legs promptly collapsed underneath him. Coming in somewhere around the middle, Harry arrived in far better physical condition.

Mackin did not look pleased with any of them. "You last four!" he barked at the two Slytherin girls, an overweight Hufflepuff, and a Gryffindor who was gripping his stomach in pain. "You will be cleaning the toilets this evening. As for everyone else, I can see that you ate like pigs at lunch! And you!" He glared at Malfoy. "What's your name?"

Despite breathing heavily and sitting on the icy ground, Malfoy glared back with his usual level of disrespect. "Draco Malfoy. . . sir."

Mackin's eyes narrowed. "Well, _Draco Malfoy_. Just look at yourself. You came in first, but you're exhausted. Anyone who wanted could easily pick you off and you wouldn't even be able to put up a decent fight. There is a time and place for pushing limits and expending every last reserve of energy, but this is neither. The vast majority of the time, it is wiser to aim lower and conserve your strength for something that actually matters. . . You get cleaning duty with the four stragglers."

Harry was so used to Draco's inappropriate mouthing-off that he was surprised when the Slytherin just gritted his teeth and forced out a "Yes, sir." When Mackin's attention turned away, Draco punched the hard snow, scowling angrily at the ground. If Harry hadn't known better, he might have thought that Draco was mad at himself. Well, maybe he should give Draco the benefit of the doubt after all: Harry still hardly knew him, despite the numerous revealing encounters they had had over the last two weeks. And he looked so delicious, sprawled on the ground with a disappointed pout on his perfect lips and a healthy flush to his skin.

Mackin ordered them into pairs to practice blocking and hexing on the warded training field, and Harry took the opportunity to approach Draco. Unfortunately, it appeared that Pansy had the same idea he had, but Harry did understand the blonde well enough to play this move right –

"Hey, Malfoy. You're not afraid of a little competition are you?" he challenged, but without the once customary hostility.

Indeed, it was _exactly_ the right thing to say and Draco even looked a little relieved by the normalcy. "Not at all, Potter. I'm always up for kicking your arse."

Pansy rolled her eyes (_boys_), and moved off to find another partner. Harry smiled slightly, and reached out a hand to his so-called nemesis. The symbolism hurt a little, but Draco forced himself to appear indifferent and grabbed Harry's arm without any display of hesitance. Harry hauled him up and pulled him close simultaneously; searching green eyes burning into his, Draco's breath hitched in sudden panic. What was the fool Gryffindor doing? And in public of all places!

Indeed, Harry barely realized what he was doing. He leaned in a little closer, impulsively following desire instead of reason, and took an indulgent whiff of the sweaty Slytherin, his own breath brushing across Draco's neck as he exhaled. Merlin, Harry didn't know how it was possible, but he smelt _good_, and comforting, and. . . reminded him of his one memory hot sex.

Draco quickly drew back, eying Harry warily, but also clearly embarrassed. Indeed, he was mortified and slightly nauseated to discover his body reacting to the Gryffindor's vicinity and interest; he wasn't supposed to be (nor had ever been) attracted to _anyone_, especially another man. He found the idea of sex disgusting and gruesome, and his mind tended to reel away from it as though it was a dangerous black hole that would consume and crush him if he got too close. Yes, it would be nice to be able to lead a normal life, and normal meant forming normal relationships and having normal sex, but survival had required he give up on that ambition. The evidence of his psychological scarring was abundant, and years of internal conflict had yielded the conclusion that he had been irreparably damaged by his father. Nothing he had seen in the appalling alternate realities had convinced him otherwise.

Harry had grown hard too, but he was also aware that the object of his lust was on the verge of bolting in the opposite direction. He tried to make Draco stay by the force of his gaze, saying, "I'm sorry, I. . . I need to back off, I know. I just. . . wasn't thinking."

Draco nodded uncertainly, forcing himself to gather his wits. He had dealt with Father's inhuman abuse for years, he had even met the Dark Lord, he could deal with Potter's infantile crush. It was even a little flattering, and would probably pass as the events of their _Quaero Tempus _adventure faded into distant memory. Potter had clearly not banished them as thoroughly (or even at all) from his mind as Draco had.

"Potter! Malfoy!" Mackin bellowed. "Enough chatting! Start your exercises or I'll have you running another five laps!"

The two teens quickly stepped farther apart, though Draco could tell that Harry wanted to say more. Instead, the Gryffindor offered, "How about I start with the blocking? You can try to hex me, but I doubt you'll manage."

Once more on familiar ground, Draco felt significantly more at ease. "You wish, Potter. I'm gonna hex your balls off!"

Harry smiled to himself, relieved that the moment of awkwardness had passed, and took up a defensive stance. "Give it your best shot!"

! BREAK !

It was no surprise to Harry that Draco proved very adept at hexes and curses, particularly at speed casting, silent casting, and spell diversity. The strength of his spells left something to be desired, but Harry was a tough critic simply because few could match the strength of his own spells. Indeed, Harry himself could afford to work of silent casting and spell diversity.

Defensively, the two also had much to learn from each other. Harry was adept at magically blocking and annulling curses and hexes, while Draco proved remarkably able to roll with the punches, repeatedly getting up from spells that Harry was sure would flatten him. Years of Quidditch had left them both quite capable of dodging, feinting, and other physical manoeuvring, which Mackin praised after watching one exercise.

After a couple exhausting hours, Mackin ordered a change in partners, after which Draco worked with one of the Slytherin fifth years that clearly needed help, while Harry found himself partnered with Cho, who proved that she had learned a lot during the previous year's DA sessions. Finally, at 1600, Mackin ordered the magically exhausted Hogwarts recruits to assemble with the other recruits, and led everyone in a series of exercises designed to increase strength and magical flow. By 1700 the sun was getting low in the sky and the recruits were dismissed.

At the dinner, Harry was not alone in almost falling asleep at the table. Indeed, one of the Slytherin fifth years actually fell into his plate after nodding off. Laughter spattered the mess tent, but by and large everyone was too tired to either ridicule or take offense. Even the twins were operating at noticeably lower levels of energy, though they were two of only a handful of people that were managing to talk with any amount of animation. Indeed, Cho was still following Harry around, but she was so quiet that Harry practically forgot about her.

At Draco's urging, he and the two Slytherins who had finished their laps last left the mess tent early to begin their punishment, followed shortly by the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor – the latter of who commented loudly (and rather immaturely) that all the Slytherins should work in the toilets, as it was the only place where they could be trusted.

The toilets, by the way, were _revolting_, literally five tents where one had the privacy to squat in private, a roll of toilet paper hanging from the tent pole AN: modelled on toilets the author has visited in Siberia. Draco was forced to choke down his own bile, but Millicent (whose bulk made her both a slow runner and a sumo wrestling contender) and Tia (a frail-looking fifth year) were barely able to stand, let alone master the cleaning and waste-disposal spells that neither had ever encountered before. Tia in particular looked faint, trembling on her thin legs, and Draco sighed and made a decision. "Mil, why don't you help Tia get warm? Sit somewhere nearby, I'll do your guys' tents. Keep a look out for Mackin or Moody, so you can look busy if you need to."

Millicent nodded gratefully, while Tia barely reacted at all. Draco rubbed the bridge of his nose and turned back to the nasty tents.

"Uh, does anyone know a spell to get rid of shit?" the arsehole Gryffindor asked with disgust.

Given the copious amount of his own blood that he had encountered in his short life, Draco _did_ know some quite powerful cleaning spells, but he really had to rack his brain for a waste-disposal spell. Then it came to him piecemeal, as though from a dream, via hazy unfamiliar memories of torturing people: a Dark Mark on his arm, Father showing him how to clean up when done, Father saying that it was neither seemly nor safe to leave behind evidence of such grisly activities as torture and murders – both which tended to leave behind such detritus as excrement and urine. A strong shiver shook his body and he had to quench another wave of nausea, but his face and voice betrayed nothing. "_Aufero Attero_."

Gripping his wand, he advanced on the first tent, rolled back the opening and clearly pronounced the cleaning and waste-disposal spells. The tent inside then looked spotless, though it still stunk to high hell, but that was easily taken care of with another spell –

"AGH- FUCK! Fuck fuck fuck!"

Draco smiled; that would be the sound of the Gryffindor being covered in shit. He heard Millicent laughing and he stepped out of the tent to see the Gryffindor desperately trying to wipe crap off of his face and no longer white robe. When he saw the Slytherin, he stormed up threateningly, but Draco quickly pointed his wand at him. "Take another step and you will not just be covered in shit, you will _be_ shit."

The Gryffindor glared furiously at him. "Fuck you, Malfoy! You did that on purpose!"

"Of course I did," Draco responded spitefully, though clearly enjoying the situation. "I overheard you bad-mouthing my house. Besides, it's your own fault for assuming that any flick of the wand would have the desired effect. Waste-removal is, after all," he sniffed comically, "a very delicate process."

The Gryffindor looked ready to kill him, but the situation was funny enough that even Tia and the Hufflepuff had to laugh, while Millicent was laying in the snow, gasping for breath.

"I wouldn't try to retaliate if I were you," Draco continued menacingly. "Or you might just find yourself up shit creak without a paddle or wand."

Millicent screamed raucously in laughter, and even Draco had to crack a smile. The Gryffindor finally realized that if there was any revenge to be had, it would have to be had later, but that if he was to clean his tent at all, he would still need Malfoy to show him how to do it. So he clenched his teeth and asked is a high-pitched, disgustingly sugary voice, "Oh please, Malfoy, would you show me how to clean up shit?"

"Why, of course, O'Brien. It's just a simple twirl and flick, like _this_." Draco demonstrated, and then O'Brien stiffly returned to his tent. The Hufflepuff even managed a thanks before attempting to clean his own tent. Draco flashed a smile at Mil and Tia, then made short business of the remaining two tents.

"Come on, girls. It's time for some plotting."

! CHAPTER END !

Sorry this chapter is so slow and boring. I just need to establish a camp routine as the context within which all ese takes place. The story should get more exciting next chapter. I will try not to get too bogged down by detail.


	25. Day 12, Part I: Monsters

Disclaimer: I have no legal rights.

Sorry it took so long, school and work have started again. . .

Ch. 25: Day 12, Part I: Monsters

Harry collapsed on his cot almost immediately after dinner, despite the twins' assurances that the best fun to be had was still at night, even at a battle camp. Exhausted, he slept like a rock for several hours before waking a little before midnight: his tent was pitch black, like a starless sky, and the sound of wind blowing through frozen wasteland the only evidence of a world beyond the immediate nothingness. Muffled senses provoked the imagination to amplify the evidence of every misfiring neuron, causing the still emptiness to become suffocating, perception straining for any indication of what could have woken him.

There it was! A strange counter current to the whistling wind, low pitched and uneven. After a second it faded, but then Harry heard it again – lilting and suspiciously complex. Paranoia struck his heart and Harry grabbed for his wand and glasses, jumping out of bed and stalking to where he knew the tent flap to be. He felt out the zipper and quietly, slowly pulled it down: he couldn't see much, but the sky was so clear that the slim slit of the moon, the stars, and even the Milky Way offered a soft glow. He could vaguely make out the tents some distance in front of him. . . t

Then the faint whispering could be heard again – definitely coming from the Slytherin court to the left of his tent.

With a flare of irritation, Harry yanked on his boots and pulled his robe over his pajamas. Leave it to the Slytherins to be a pain in the ass in the middle of the night. Whatever their intentions, they certainly seemed to put effort into being dodgy.

He slipped silently out of his tent and squatted at the corner to study the darkness. . . Sure enough, there they were; probably all of them, sitting in a circle, as close together as possible. He was too far to hear what was being said, but it was hard not be a little apprehensive. The idea was daunting, but the Gryffindor in him knew what he had to do: he stood up and walked carefully towards them.

"What about . . . "

" . . . a distraction from the target. . ." That murmur might have been Draco.

". . . Polyjuice?" Nott maybe?

Harry felt himself pass through a weak sound dampening barrier.

He was close now and silence fell at once as all the Slytherins turned to look at him, almost as though everyone had noticed him simultaneously. In the darkness he could still make out a few distinct faces from under the robes, and Draco, of course, was obvious however obscured.

"Hey, what's going on, mates?" his words cool, but weighted.

A time stretched in which only the drag of the wind upon the ice could be heard, before finally a group decision was (cultishly) made without ever a word being exchanged. It was Pansy who gave the voice to the authorized truth, "We were just discussing our role in this side of the war."

"Is that a, uh, _safe _topic?" Harry asked, all the more suspicious for Pansy having answered instead of Draco.

"Why don't you stay and find out?" Draco taunted with a malicious sneer, starlight glinting off his pale skin.

Faced with a ring of stony expressions and piercing gazes, it was a rather daunting challenge; but he had gotten himself in this situation and it was too late back out now. "Where would I sit?" he asked tentatively.

Draco looked at his housemates – rather, his mates from a house that had transcended the walls of Hogwarts. It was clear from their expressions that several had arrived at the very same idea, obvious really to any educated wizard or witch from a traditional pureblood family (as most Slytherins were), who would have witnessed and participated in circle ceremonies. In such ceremonies, there was always a position in the center, generally reserved for the sacrifice, or for the judge.

With a toothy, carnivorous grin, Millicent Bulstrode _purred_ disturbingly, "You can sit it the middle."

The rest grunted their agreement, and several laughed, then dozens of eyes rested expectantly on the Boy-Who-Lived. Reluctantly, Harry stepped over the knees of two Slytherins, then promptly sat cross-legged in the center, conspicuously facing Draco. Even in darkness, their eyes sought out an intense connection.

"Actually, we were discussing our role in any upcoming battle," Draco clarified ominously. Harry frowned: he was going to _strangle _that bastard if he was up to something treacherous, but he was rather willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Tor was just expressing his concerns that we would be a target during any battle, given the special. . . distaste the other side will have for us," Pansy stated matter-of-factly, though it was clear that her words were carefully considered.

After a growing silence, Nott took the opportunity to revisit his idea, venturing, "I suggested using Polyjuice so that we could avoid the added risk. . . I still think that is the best option. Even you, Malfoy, can't be too eager to face your Father, can you?"

Annoyed, Draco replied directly, "No, I'm not eager. Your father's a torturing, killing, psychopathic monster, believe me I get it, but that's why our identities are of such strategic value. . ." He smiled frighteningly, and whispered in an eerie voice, "Monster bait."

The images provoked made Harry's stomach clench painfully with fear, and he felt a little ill; the Slytherins tensed and several leaned away from their leader.

"Don't do that, Malfoy," Clairden scolded, kicking some snow at him. "You'll scare the kids."

Indeed, most of the younger (as well as some of the older) Slytherins did look scared, despite their half-hearted attempts to hide it. They were the faces of children, and Draco's features softened as he searched eyes looking to him for strength and leadership.

Licking his lips, he leaned forward and began secretively, "Deep within Malfoy Manner, there are big libraries, with more books than most ever seen in their whole lives. Within one tome, there is a composition by Salazar Slytherin. . . a mindtwister."

Harry was a little astounded to glance around and see that all the Slytherins were leaning forward for what appeared to be story time; indeed, the quasi-fictional_ Adventures of Draco Malfoy and the Haunted Malfoy Manor _had been entertaining the dungeon dwelling students of Hogwarts ever since Draco had been a pipsqueak first years.

"Merlin, I obsessed over this mindtwister for a whole week straight once, when I was maybe seven or eight. Father, of course, punished me for wasting my time with such brain rot, and usually I didn't find 'twisters that captivating, but this one. . . Father should have known better, nothing Salazar Slytherin ever did was a waste of time."

Harry was impressed: Draco had mad skillz. He shouldn't be so surprised, but he found it difficult to reconcile his courageous, responsible persona with his cruel, destructive alter ego.

"Finally I realized that something else was going on beyond the usual hypnosis, a purposeful magical content to the words that would put the thinker in a trance that protected them from pain and fear. . . Would you like to hear it?"

The Slytherins grunted their affirmative, and Draco leaned into the circle, closer to Harry, and their eyes met again. . . "Peace breeds martyrs and villains, war makes killers of men."

What the –

! BREAK !

The Slytherins gave the mindtwisters a try, sitting still and letting the phrases repeat in their minds, in every permeation of emphasis, until neurons fired and blood flowed to the very rhythms of word. . .

Harry had never experienced anything like it, and he disliked it immediately; quenching his panic, he used what little skills he'd learned from Snape to really _concentrate_ –

And like that, the trance passed. Harry looked around to see the Slytherins watching him through slightly glazed eyes, clearly still indulging in the mindtwister. What in Merlin's name were they getting out of it?

"Alright, Potter?" Draco inquired, sounding exhausted, but almost friendly.

"What's a bloody mindtwister?" Harry whispered, trying to keep his cool.

Draco's expression of surprise was suspiciously readable, and so barely believable; with a smirk the blonde explained. "Right, you wouldn't know, what with growing up muggle. . . Mindtwisters are. . . linguistic magical quirks, is the technical definition. Really, they are certain word and phrase combinations that demanded magical attention. Just by thinking them, you become a little obsessed, though the phrases are neither catchy nor memorable. . . it's easily breakable or avoidable with a little concentration. Rather a lame phenomenon, like rhyming, or double-entendre."

Harry smiled in amusement, then they shared a moment of silence fell to look around at the Slytherins trying to indulging the trance. Shortly, Zabini pushed the mindtwister out of his consciousness with a tired sigh, then mustered the energy to ask nervously, "You made up that hogwash about the mindtwister being special invention of Salazar Slytherin's, didn'tcha?"

"It'll never work if you don't believe," Draco deadpanned, though his response was somewhat cut off the end.

A couple recruits snickered, then Pansy offered, "It's almost midnight, maybe we should get some rest. We can discuss this tomorrow, when we've had more time to consider what was said here tongith."

There were several grunts and comments of agreement, and declarations of fatigue, as the Slytherins began getting to their feet and marching through the snow and wind to the welcoming (relative) warmth of their tents

"Alright, Draco?" Millicent asked; Draco nodded, then it was only him and Harry left sitting in the frozen darkness. Even the warming spells on their thick wool robes couldn't keep the chill from settling deep in the bone. . . But something kept him out in the frigid night, something that was drawn to these strange private moments with Potter, something that inexplicably wanted Potter to like him, to maybe even trust him.

"I'm not gonna start any trouble," he offered somewhat lamely, trying to find the right words to express the meaning of this night.

"Yeah, right," Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Malfoy, trouble's practically your middle name."

Draco smiled a little at what was, unfortunately, undeniable. Still, it needed to said out loud, "What I mean is. . . we're not plotting treason here, we're just. . . preparing for the worst, you know?"

As Draco continued, Harry could hear better than see the genuine strength and concern that he was saying, "Not all of us will live to face our mothers and fathers, but we'd like a couple tricks up our sleeves, should that ever arrive."

"Like Salazar Slytherin's mindtwister?" Harry retorted with a chuckle. Draco spun some good shit, wasn't a half-bad leader, but Harry was highly skeptical of any mythical potions or curses or 'magical quirks' that Draco brought to the table, especially considering how _fabulously _the last specimen had worked out.

Draco just shrugged, looking away nonchalantly; huddled for warmth, he suddenly appeared smaller and more tired than just minutes before. "You're right, of course," he admitted after a moment. "Salazar Slytherin had nothing to do with it, I composed it special when I was eight. It took weeks to get the right wording and calibration." Draco flinched slightly: Father had worked himself into quite a rage, but Draco hadn't been able tostop for the knowledge of how close he was to something important.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked with concern, leaning over to stare in the direction of Draco's vacant gaze.

Draco inhaled sharply and continued, "It does work though. Not because of any magic beyond the normal range of mindtwisters, but because of the specific distribution and meanings of the words. When the phrase is twisted down, the mind focuses on two parts, martyrs and villains, and killers of men. Additional magic is unnecessary, the repeating chant of the mindtwister _linguistically_ affects of the subconscious in such ways that stimulate. . . awareness, readiness, and probably endurance, while numbing feeling. The words become the focus of the soul and heart, so that the mind and body can endure the unendurable."

Harry's expression was so unmoved, and slightly disbelieving (mostly because, once again, the situation was so _bizarre_), but Draco grew frustrated at himself for even trying.

"For fuck's sake, Potter!" he exclaimed, getting to his feet. "Just repeat, 'martyrs and villains, killer of men' about a million times, then believe me, you'll be ready to kill someone. The repetition is numbing and hypnotic. It's just a trick to provoke a protective subconscious reaction. . . Besides, as long as your mind's on the stupid words, it's not on your fear and guilt. It's just a . . . little trick," he finished defensively, turning to leave.

Harry jumped to his feet, anxious to counter Draco's flare of anger. "No, I get it. It's clever, I'm impressed."

He reached out and placed his hand on the rough wool of Draco's arm. Warily, the Slytherin turned towards him, and Harry smiled sincerely, willing him to not be angry, to be . . . happy, if even for a moment. Finally close enough to really make out the other's features in the starlight, they just looked at each other for a long moment, both having to reluctantly concede to themselves that they liked what they saw. Hesitantly, Draco offered his own small smile, adrenaline beating down his fear of intimacy: it was thrilling . . .

. . . and kinda suffocating.

"Thanks for letting me sit in on this," Harry said earnestly, his voice breathy and intimate. A shiver ran through Draco's body, provoking action.

"We should try to get some sleep," he replied, moving away and breaking the intensity between them.

As much as he wanted to continue the exchange, Harry knew he too was tired, and that Draco was right. "I suppose so."

"Later, then," Draco stated, before hurrying towards his tent.

Harry watched him disappear into the frozen dark, half-heartedly berating himself for always falling for the crazy ones.

! BREAK !

The next morning a shrill, loud siren woke everyone when there were still stars in the sky. Stiff, zombie-like recruits sleepwalked through breakfast and were running drills when the sun finally deigned to make an appearance. The biting cold clashed numbingly with aching, burning muscles. Then hour after hour of crash courses in silent casting, speed casting, and blocking spells; lunch came and went in a rushed blur, then more crash courses in basic medical diagnosis and spells, strategy, and unarmed combat, followed by general sparring.

By dinner, well after sunset, it was difficult to muster even the energy to converse. Cho had been following Harry around all day (much to the aggravation of the twins), but had run out of wind during unarmed combat, and was now silently propped up on her elbow, head bowed. George and Fred were discussing how to use delayed transfiguration spells to infiltrate or sabotage enemy territory, while Harry pretended to understand.

At the Slytherin table, Clairden said, "It's too bad the real battle can't be hand to hand. I'd kick the shite outta You-Know-Who."

Pansy snorted. "Easy for you to say, you've got more muscle than magic. . . If it's one thing I learned today, it's never be parted from your wand."

"I wonder what happens to the wands of the dead?" Theodore Nott asked rather seedily. "Could we pick them up and use them?"

"At your own risk," Zara murmured, speaking up for the first time since leaving Hogwarts, her eyes on her bowl of mush. Pansy looked at her in surprise, and with her attention came the notice of her other housemates – even Draco took time from his own private musing to glance her way.

Slightly embarrassed, she cleared her throat and continued, "I tried to use my mother's wand, once, before Hogwarts. . . I'm not really sure what happened, but it felt like . . . being struck by the Cruciatus or something. I fell to the ground and, uh, you know, convulsed and vomited and stuff. . . then I passed out. The house elves said later, after I woke up at St. Mungo's, that it had only lasted a dozen seconds, but it felt a lot longer than that."

Tor, another seventh year, frowned and commented bitterly, "Sounds like a curse was placed on it."

"_Interminor Attrecto_. No wizard or witch with half a brain would leave themselves vulnerable to being attacked with their own wand," Draco replied reflexively, perfectly parroting what his father had once said to him.

His words were greeted with the familiar expressions of concern, distaste, and interest that dark arts topics always invoked.

"Let me guess. . . black magic?" Pansy queried sarcastically.

"But of course," Draco returned. A series of meaningful glances passed between various Slytherins: this topic would be revisited in a more private setting. None were exactly _comfortable _with the use of the dark arts, but neither were the exactly _uncomfortable_. . .

A conspicuous, heavy silence fell on the table, for which Draco felt largely responsible; he took the opportunity to loudly voice an idea that had been festering in the recesses of his mind since the speed casting session. "We could request to be issued muggle firearms."

At the next table, Harry and several others turned to hear the seemingly unbelievable words of the Malfoy heir, but the Slytherins looked even more astounded: after all, his housemates were here because they hated and feared Voldemort, not because they felt any love for muggles, and for a long time Draco had been the house's most vocal opponent of any and all things muggle.

"You're kidding," Blaise blurted for the second time in less than twenty four hours.

Pleased that the possibly incriminating topic of dark arts had been left behind, Draco smirked, but lowered his voice so that other tables would have to strain to hear. "Serious as _Avada Kadavra_. . . I dislike muggles as much as any of you, but muggles can do some things without magic that we can't even do _with _magic. And war just so happens to be one of their primary specialties. A man can kill faster with a gun than a wand. A bullet travels faster than a spell, hard to ward against, definitely harder to dodge. Some guns can shoot off a spray of bullets, so that it's almost impossible to miss. With an AK-47 I could level everyone in this tent in under a minute. Less if I didn't have to avoid curses."

"How'd you know so much about guns?" Tia asked timidly, though she had smiled at Draco several times since the incident at the toilets the night before.

Of course, the incredible answer to her question was that the underground racing scene in London could be very rough; it hadn't usually involved guns, but Dragon Maloy had come across his fair share during his life as a racer and an urchin. Draco himself had decided that he rather disliked guns – they were an unoriginal, disrespectful, and dehumanizing method of bringing death – but when there are monsters after you, monstrous weaponry might be in order.

Despite his thoughts, Draco glanced arrogantly at his housemate and just said, "I just know a lot about weapons."

! CHAPTER END !

It's coming, it's coming. . .

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	26. Day 12, Part II: Sins of the Father

Disclaimer: I own my student loans, not HP & Co.

To my reviewers: Thank you for your feedback. A number of you have indicated that there is a lull in the story – I know, but I am trying to stick with my original plot, which requires that there be lull moments as there is in "real life". Still, your patience will pay off: action comes to those who wait.

Chapter 26: Day 12, Part II: Sins of the Father

Again, Harry found himself surprisingly awake several hours after retiring to sleep. He held his breath for a minute listening, only to have silence prevail. Still, logic had a pretty good suggestion for just who had woken him up.

"Ugh, bloody Slytherins. Do they never sleep?" Harry grumbled, rolling out of bed to don his robe and boots. This time, he was just going to tell them to go asleep: they needed the rest, and they could find a more reasonable time to act all suspicious.

Stepping out of the tent, the biting air stung his skin and eyes so that he blinked several times before realizing that no one could been seen on the dark frozen ground that had hosted the Slytherins' last gathering. Frowning, he looked carefully at each tent, though the starlight offered limited visibility. . .

Did that one tent just move? Studying it, was he just imagining the escape of faint traces of light? It wasn't Malfoy's tent, but he couldn't for the life of him remember whose tent it was.

He blinked.

There it was again – the muffled sound of humanity. Not like the night before, not whispered word; it was sharper, more sudden. . . more suffocated.

Harry ears couldn't place the origin of the haunting sound, but he didn't need one: his suspicious hunch was enough. He ran through the cutting wind, over the crunchy terrain, past the dampening wall; then he ripped up the zipper and stepped in –

Draco, Pansy, and Tor sprung to their feet, turning defensively towards Potter, obscuring the bed. All three had brandished their wands before even recognizing the robed figure.

"What the bloody hell are you trying to do? Scare us to death?" Pansy hissed, clearly shaken by Harry's sudden appearance – and, given the size of the tents, close proximity. She had been caught up in the moment, and had been irrationally terrified that her father had come to kill and punish her.

"Sneaking up on people like that is likely to get you killed, you know that Potter?" Draco snapped, looking a little pale even by his standards. The Boy Wonder had chosen a very. . . vulnerable time to come barging in.

Harry had lowered his hood and looked distinctly flustered. "I, uh, heard something."

Of course, the recruit on the bed felt the time ripe to moan piteously.

"Okay, I definitely heard that." Harry stepped forward, pushing past Tor and Pansy to see Theodore Nott, laying flush and sweating on the mattress, in obvious pain and having difficulty breathing. With this vision, a familiar knot formed in Harry's stomach.

Something _really_, _really_ bad was going down.

"What's wrong with him?" he asked seriously, finally tearing his gaze away from the premonition before him – but Draco's reluctant and defensive expression offered little reassurance. He looked at Pansy and Tor, but he suspected that they would take their queue from Malfoy.

Frustrated, Harry turned back to the shaking body on the bed. Reaching out, he placed on hand on Nott's upper arm, and another on his forehead. "How are you doing, Theodore?"

Nott closed his eyes tightly and shook his head.

"Thee," Draco spoke up suddenly.

"What?" Harry asked, obviously irritated.

"Thee. . ." Draco trailed off cryptically. "Thee Nott. Only his parents call him Theodore, and they're part of the problem."

"I can't help if I don't know what's going on," Harry replied, looking again at Nott, Thee, whatever. The sheer physicality of the symptoms suggested a poison of some sort, but when dealing with the Dark Arts, anything was possible. It was the difficulty breathing that really boded poorly.

Leaning forward, Harry whispered, "We're here, Thee. We'll do all we can."

Harry drew away, but Thee desperately grasped his hand, his eyes burning with intensity, and rasped, "People are going to die."

"Who? Who's going to die?" Harry asked urgently, gripping Nott as hard as he was being held.

Then Nott pushed him away. "It doesn't matter. No one you care about."

Pansy slipped passed Harry and wrapped her arms around the flushed Slytherin. "Don't let them take you, Thee. I've got you." Her face was buried in Nott's chest, but her voice betrayed her distress.

Harry glared expectantly at Draco: it was HIGH time that he was let in on the details of this sordid situation. Rationally, Draco had to admit that an explanation was pretty much inescapable, but he could recognize the twitchy feeling of his own pent-up rage, just waiting for a moment of weakened defenses to surge forth, take control of the human vessel, and maniacally lay waste to all that defied him. . .

Shaking himself mentally, Draco met the Gryffindor's gaze and stated bluntly, "He's been placed under an ancient, _dark _spell."

"And as the dark arts authority around here, you know all about it," Harry shot back, himself feeling the frustration of the situation.

Scowling at him, Draco sneered, "My reputation precedes me! I am an authority, one of the perks of a Malfoy education. So maybe you should listen to what I have to say."

Pissy Malfoy, plus sickly Slytherin recruit. . . this was going to get worse, no matter how one tried to frame the situation. "By all means, _Malfoy_, enlighten me."

Draco wavered for a moment between educating Harry as to the situation and upbraiding him for his provocative attitude; then forced himself to recall his priorities – mainly, at the moment, Thee. "It is not uncommon, historically, for powerful families to cast dark spells on their children; spells to ensure loyalty. . . and to prevent their untimely deaths at the hands of their own offspring."

The idea left a bad taste in Harry's mouth, and a small, prejudiced part of him was disgusted with the wizarding world. Sure, muggles had mastered the art of mass killing, of _genocide_, but leave it to the wizards and witches to get _really _twisted. It was downright perverse.

"So what set it off?" he asked seriously, frowning in distaste.

"My guess – Nott senior has received a fatal, or near fatal wound. That's usually how these things work." Draco's words were delivered with false nonchalance, causing Pansy to glance sharply at him, and Tor to stare at him as though his death had just been predicted.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Harry's eyes landed again on Thee: his pupils had rolled up in his eye sockets, and he was wheezing in short, quick gasps. As sweaty and pale as he was, it was obvious to Harry that Moody and Mackin would have to be involved almost immediately. Harry asked softly, "What's going to happen to him?"

Adrenaline spiked and Draco restrained the sudden urge to break something; instead, he shrugged. "Assuming the spell was cast properly, and at full strength. . . should his father expire, he will likely die."

Though the response was not unexpected, it still sent a thrill of fear through Harry's body, and he glanced at Pansy and Tor before his gaze rested heavily on Draco. Who else might be sporting similar curses, waiting to die from something happening to a family member?

"You shouldn't talk that way in front of him," Pansy accused, sounding close to tears.

"You're not, uh, cursed, are you?" Harry stuttered urgently; he really didn't need another reason to loath and despise Lucius Malfoy.

Draco barked a short, harsh laugh, and shook his head. "No. . . A Malfoy ancestor once deemed such spells to be an unacceptable risk to the longevity of the bloodline, what with our particular proclivity for untimely deaths. . . Besides, there are plenty of _other ways_ to keep offspring in line. My family has never used those binding spells since. . . I suppose you could say that Father is a traditionalist."

Harry was so relieved by Draco's words that he felt guilty for not caring more for Nott. "What about the other Slytherins? Anyone else under this curse?"

Draco's eyes flickered over to the now ashen Tor, and he nodded grimly in his direction, ". . . and I suspect one other."

Harry looked at the tall, lanky Tor, and the tragic, pathetic expression that graced his face. "Why didn't you tell anybody?"

After a tense pause, Tor's response was resigned, and he spoke slowly. "There's nothing to be done. . . I was cursed because my father didn't trust me – with good reason, as it turns out. . . I dunno. I understood that the odds of me surviving this war are very slim, but You-Know-Who needs to be stopped, no matter what. . . So I'm okay with that, I guess. I'd. . . like to go out fighting."

Harry felt a strong wave of empathy and their eyes met. "This might sound crazy, but I know exactly how you feel."

After a moment, Tor nodded in acknowledgement: of course the Boy-Who-Lived would understand something things like fate and death and fighting, and it made him feel a little better.

A pensive silence grew, tainted by Nott's pants and moans, before a need for action forced speech. "We have to tell Moody and Mackin," Harry stated.

The Slytherins exchanged lingering glances, after which Draco reluctantly conceded, "I should do it."

Harry cringed slightly: neither Auror had shown any fondness for the blonde. He could definitely use some backup. "I'll go with you."

So the two of them braved the cold to dash to Mackin's tent, only to discover it deserted – immaculate even, with no sign of recent activity.

"Bloody Hell," Draco whispered edgily. "Something is definitely going on if Mackin's been called out in the middle of the night."

"Come on," Harry said grimly, taking off towards the other 'big' tent. "We need to try Moody."

Moody was quite displeased to be interrupted in the middle of the night, but Harry and Draco could tell that they hadn't woken him up. A brief report of events was all that was required to spur the craggily old man into action. With out comment, he strode quickly to Nott's tent.

Standing over the delirious boy, his nostrils flared as he took on an expression of extreme hostility. "Some dared hope such barbaric practices had died out, but I knew better. . . the greed for power will never die."

Nott's body seized suddenly, violently, and Pansy cried out as she held him down, Draco moving to help her.

"Can we get a mediwitch or something? Maybe set him to St. Mungo's?" Harry asked, growing upset by the Slytherin's obvious display of pain.

Moody shook his head immediately, pushing Pansy and Draco out of the way so that he could sit on the bed and examine Nott. "There is nothing that can be done. Ancient magic cannot simply be _treated_."

Distressed, Harry looked to the three Slytherins where they stood triumvirate, jaws clenched to hold back the grief, their blank faces nevertheless conveying the full weight of their resignation. . .

For they had known.

There was nothing that could be done about it; and that was the real reason it had not been brought to anyone's attention.

After briefly resting his hand on Nott's forehead, Moody roughly turned the boy's face from side to side while inspecting the eyes. "Only the completely natural death of the spell's caster will remove the spell from his body," he proclaimed, mostly for Harry's benefit.

"Only if rotting away in Azkaban counts as perfectly natural," Draco gritted out between clenched teeth.

Moody's eyes swiveled over to inspect the Slytherin spokesman, not for the first time since his arrival at the camp. General, innate paranoia demanded a degree of suspicion, but he could detect the edge of desperate determination that laced everything the young man did and said. It didn't engender trust really, but it inspired a degree of respect: the Malfoy heir would not die easily, and that was always an asset during war. Not like the pathetic, cursed boy lying on the bed, whose condition probably boded well for the status of the situation at the Ministry.

Moody stood abruptly, and roughly said, "Keep him comfortable, I will return shortly."

Then he pushed passed the recruits and exited the tent, leaving all a little perplexed.

"I knew they wouldn't be able to help," Tor complained bitterly, pacing in tightly circles in the little space available. "No one can do anything about it. . . Thee's gonna die, and so am I."

"You don't know that!" Draco snapped, glaring at him. "None of us know that. We all signed on knowing we might die, but it's not written in the bloody stars."

Harry tried to ignore the exchange, his mind trying to piece the night together. . . he didn't like the conclusion he was drawing. Frowning, he muttered, "Something's going down tonight."

"Obviously," Pansy retorted from the position she had reclaimed next to Nott.

Harry pushed on, "Nott's father has been almost killed, Mackin's not here, Moody was already awake – like he was _anticipating _something. . . Maybe there's a battle going on right now!"

Draco prickled noticeably at the announcement, though he couldn't deny that the thought had crossed his mind. "Without me! Without _you_, the bloody chosen one!" he barked in aggrivation. "Is this what it means to be a recruit, that we can't fight!"

"Calm the fuck down," Harry commanded irritably. "We've only been training for a couple of days, I'm sure our turn to kill and maim will come soon enough."

The boys glared at each other, if only to be able to direct their frustration, allowing a degree of focus. . .

_Battle_.

Bloody hell, that meant –

Suddenly very serious, Draco turned away, blurting, "Stay here, I've got to go check something!"

Mildly shocked, Tor and Pansy watched him leave, but Harry was on his heals in a moment. They ran through the artic night, for about a dozen strides, to one of the other Slytherin tents; Draco unzipped it and stepped in –

He froze, so that Harry had to step around him when he entered. . .

On the cot was a still, lanky figure obscured by shadow; anyone who had seen a corpse before could recognize the particular, distinctive stillness of death.

Then the moment was over and Draco snapped into motion: brandishing his wand, he silently mouthed a spell that lit the tent, revealing the thin body of Zara Crowfeet. He sat down on the bed next to her, and reached out for her neck with false calm. Her skin was cool, and his fingers on her throat could make out no pulse, and a horrible gnawing had begun in his stomach.

"Draco. . ." Harry trailed off, unable to tear his eyes from the dead girl, for a split second seeing Cedric instead. . . Why were children dying just to get by? Is this what was going to happen to Theodore Nott? It was so fucked up that any of them had to be here, fighting a war that none wanted any part of. Was peace REALLY too much to ask for!

Blinking rapidly to clear his thoughts, Harry started again, "We need to get back to the others, to tell Moody."

Draco sat as though immobile, as gently holding one of Zara's arms, his eyes calmly taking in her face for a final time. When he felt Harry's hand on his shoulder, he broke away and stood rigid, anger returning so completely as to have never departed.

"Moody! Are you daft?" he shouted, fists clenched and literally trembling with rage. "He can't do anything for Thee, let alone Zara! She's _dead_, Potter! DEAD!"

"I know!" Harry returned, a little upset, before lowering his voice. "I know she's dead. I'm sorry," but he could already tell that his words would not be enough; Draco was way too wound up.

"Oh really?" the blonde sneered nastily. "Well I'm sorry too. Sorry I let you drag me back to this awful place. Watching my housemates die is my absolute _last_ choice when it comes to alternate realities."

Harry _really _did not want to be having this conversation now, in the middle of the polar night, with a dead body on the bed, and a battle raging hundreds of kilometers away. . .

"Listen here, I know all that, I really do. It sucks that it has to be this way, I know that as much as you. But we all have our roles to play, however unbearable they might be. You can't afford to be selfish, Draco, and neither can I. Our lives are not our own."

Draco's face scrunched up in pain, Potter's words bringing no comfort. He itched to act out so badly, to release the hate and hurt that _burned_ –

He lunged for wood folding chair, seizing it, smashing and breaking it on the desk, on the shelves, knocking the shelves to the ground –

Harry grabbed him forcefully from behind, pinning Draco's arms to his body. "Chill the fuck out, Malfoy," he whispered in his ear. "Now is not the time to go berserker."

Draco struggled petulantly in his hold, hissing, "When would be a good time? When it's my turn to die?"

Twisting around, Draco tried to knee him in the groin, but Harry deflected by shifting balance and toppling over the Slytherin, dragging them both to the floor.

"You bastard!" Harry exclaimed, grappling to hold Draco to the ground.

Kicking and punching wildly, Draco warded him off. The moment Harry relented, Draco tried to sit up –

Harry took the opportunity to pounce, pinning Draco's forearms with his hands, and his body with his own; though he hadn't expected it, he wasn't surprised to feel Draco's partial arousal. Unbidden, his breathing suddenly hitched, and his entire experience of the situation changed: blood rushed through his body, his pupils dilated, and his grip weakened minutely. Instinctively, he leaned in to kiss the parted lips. . .

Draco tasted faintly like vanilla, with just a dash of spice from the evening gruel; he smelled like magi-soap and excitement; but his lips were unmoving and unresponsive. Harry pulled away a little to look at him, to take in his wary expression just as their bodies rubbed together with an intimacy that their gaze forbade.

Annoyed with himself for indulging the kiss at all, Draco shoved Harry away abruptly, then scrambled to his feet. He was being a monumental _idiot_ to encourage this at all: it wasn't like he had anything to offer, or that he even wanted anything from the prat. . . "This is hardly the place."

Harry gathered himself and stood, watching Draco flatten down his white robes. Glancing at Zara-no-more, he nodded, "Later then, should we live."

Draco sighed and moved to leave without ever looking back. "Don't be an arse, Potter. Let's get out of here."

! END OF CHAPTER!

Sorry it took so long to post, I've been super busy. I'll try to be better. Please review, it'll whip me into action.


	27. Ch 27: Day 13: Our Inner Demons

Disclaimer: HP & Co. are property of JK Rowling N Cash, Inc.

Thanks for your reviews. Keep them up. Sorry it has taken so long, but I am killer busy: two jobs, school, studying, PARTYING! Anyhoo, this one is extra long, so enjoy!

Ch. 27: Day 13: Our Inner Demons

Back in Nott's tent, Moody was administering some liquid from a golden, glistening vial.

"What the fuck's that?" Draco demanded immediately upon escaping the frozen darkness.

Moody made sure that Thee emptied the vial, then he turned purposely towards Malfoy. "That, _Recruit_, is a sedative and pain killer," Moody snapped, emphasizing the Syltherin's position of power relative to his own.

Harry acted quickly to divert the hostile exchange surely destined to take place, "Sir, while you were gone, Malfoy and I found Recruit Zara Crowfeet. . . She was dead, sir; dead where she lay, on her bed. Malfoy thinks she was under a similar curse as Nott."

Harry's own words shocked him: it seemed incredible that those cold statements were his own. . . he had always felt pain so deeply that it was surprising to note evidence that he had grown more apathetic and callous. It was only a natural adaptation to dangerous and painful lives.

Moody did not think his comments odd in the least, his magic eye swiveling around to glare superstitiously at the Slytherins. "She probably was, and those two may not be the only ones involved in Dark Arts natsiness."

Tor, in his terror, had retreated to a dark corner of the tent, but Draco and Pansy remained standing to glare defiantly at the intimidating Auror.

"Our alliance to you makes our lives forfeit in the eyes of our families," Draco gritted out between clenched teeth, taking a dangerous (and very foolish) step towards Moody. "There are _bleeding contracts_ out of our lives! Doesn't that make us worthy of your trust!"

Even the ever-suspicious Moody could detect the genuine desperation in his voice, and allowed himself a modicum of belief that he would have normally rejected out of hand. "It is not a matter of trust, Recruit, you of all people must know that. Nott here, and Crowfeet – they pledged their lives, to their credit; but they pledged lives to which others already had claim. It is hardly surprising that certain life debts are being called in now."

Moody's calm delivery was infuriating, and Draco wanted to argue and fight, to bellow and throw things as he had done earlier, but he was pretty sure the Auror would incapacitate him if he even tried. Besides, just looking at Thee's fading person was enough to sap his urge _act_. . . because the Auror was right: the Slytherins had pledged lives that were not theirs, knowingly. This lack of ownership over their own lives was, in all likelihood, precisely why there were so willing to risk death to fight Voldemort.

Amidst this tension, something suddenly started beeping.

Moody roughly got to his feet. It took him a moment of fumbling to lay his hands on an object in his coat pocket. Frowning intensely, he barked, "Do what you can for him, I must go. Only time will tell."

Then Moody departed, abandoning Harry and the Slytherins to themselves.

"Fuck!" Draco exclaimed, painfully kicking the desk. " If I wanted to watch my friends die horribly, I would've stayed loyal to bloody Voldemort!"

"Don't say his name!" Tor yelled fanatically, rapidly deteriorating into tears. He backed into the corner of the tent, huddling against the wobbly drawers, terrified of being struck down any moment. . . like quiet, sweet Zara. . .

Pansy left Thee's side, and knelt beside Tor. "Pull yourself together, man! You're not the one dying, at least not yet. We've gotta do what we can while we still can!"

Pansy looked desperately at Draco and Harry for support. The latter just nodded frantically, unable to deny her plea, but Draco was in no mood to be agreeable, "Like what, Pansy! Keep running drills at the North Pole while our parents are dying in battles in England!"

Draco's behavior was getting a little out of hand, and certainly not helping matters, so Harry opened his mouth so say, well, _something_ –

Pansy was on fire and, apparently, a lot faster than him, "Why, Slytherin Prince," she began coyly, but with an undercurrent of growing anger. "If I remember correctly, it was _you _who persuaded us to ally ourselves with Potter and all this lot. . . just a few days ago it was. And _now _look at us!" 

This time, Harry made sure to jump in before Draco. "Stop it! Both of you! There's nothing to do! So we might die! So what! This is war, people die! I'm sorry, but life sucks that way!"

Tor and Pansy were gaping at him as though he had betrayed their every hope (then again, they had never had much hope anyway); Draco, bizarrely enough, was sneering and nodding in absolute agreement; and Nott, of course, was oblivious, and several shades closer to death.

Moody did not return that night, no one did. Eventually, misery and exhaustion forced the recruits into a restless sleep on the frozen ground of Nott's tent. At some point in the early hours of the morning, Theodore Nott died with a strangled cry. Pansy said a few words over the body, including Zara in her heathen prayer, but no one else said anything, and no one cried. They were numb, and drained from lack of sleep, and lost in thoughts of their own impending dooms. Time stretched, as though hypnotizing zombies. . .

! BREAK !

Sometime late in the predawn hours, the deafening blare of the wake-up horn rose even the heaviest sleepers. Stumbling out of Nott's tent, Pansy, Tor, Draco, and Harry noticed that their fellow recruits were, instead of making their ways towards the Mess tent, were congregating outside of it. With the help of a _Sonorus _spell, Macky was commanding the recruits to gather before him in basic lineup. Warily, they all joined their comrades, and listened as Macky announced that, "There has been an attack on the Ministry of Magic."

Many gasped, and there were loud cries of anger and outrage; somehow, Cho had materialized beside Harry, and was holding onto his arm tightly. Macky pushed on, "The information was leaked, so we were able to evacuate most of the Ministry and lay a trap. The Death Eaters walked right in."

Macky paused, but the eerie silence of the young soldiers urged him to continue, "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was not there, but many of his followers were captured and killed. . . We expect new recruits to be joining us soon. You will need to make them feel at home."

His words left so much to the imagination that many of the recruits continued to watch the Auror, hoping to somehow understand more; but amongst the usual suspects, unrest was formidable enough to manifest as disrespectful whispering and rude objection.

"Is there a problem!" Macky barked, striding forward suddenly to tower over Draco, Pansy, and Tor. As intimidating as his large figure was, it did not deter the accusatory glares of the three Slytherins: their reproach was somewhat misplaced (Macky was not responsible for the deaths of their housemates), but his ignorance and indifference was unbearable to three teenagers who had just spent several hours in the company of corpses.

Abruptly standing, so that his face was inches from the Auror's, Draco growled back, "Yes, there's a problem! Two of your soldiers died last night! Instead of being able to fight and die like warriors, magic killed them in their sleep at the ass-end of the world! I know no one cares, but this happened to two of my friends!"

Macky's face reddened in anger, ready to retaliate for his insolence, but not before Pansy had stood and shouted distraughtly, "They were two of my friends too!"

The Auror's moment of surprise was enough for Blaise to stand and call out, "Two of my friends!" He didn't know what was going on any more than any of the other recruits, but it didn't take a genius to look around and notice the conspicuous absence to two housemates. The Slytherins were suddenly in uproar, outraged and demanding to know what was happening.

Macky breathed heavily, trying to muster his patience, and striving to make the best of the situation. "You are right," he conceded loudly, clearly addressing the crowd, and choosing his words carefully. "Two of our warriors were taken from us tonight, their lives tied up with those that died. . . Their loyalty is not in question."

Macky paused, and many recruits found themselves curiously watching the Slytherins, who were only partially mollified by his words. "Our side did sustain several casualties at the Ministry of Magic. Should you have family or friends that you are concerned about, a list of the wounded and deceased will be posted outside the Mess tent by lunch. For now, you are to go to breakfast. Report to the training field at 0800. Dismissed!"

The shell-shocked recruits slowly made their way to the Mess tent, many returning first to their own tents to finish dressing. Frantic, ill-concealed whispers carried on the wind and bounced around stuffy tents; Tia, the Syltherin fifth year, was sobbing loudly, while several other Slytherins cursed in frustration and grief. Draco left them to mourn, retreating to his quarters.

Slipping out of his coat, he shivered despite the artificial heat. He collapsed, face first, on his cot, and breathed heavily. Gradually, the adrenaline flow slowed, and his anger grew cold. Then he sat up, stood up, and quickly got dressed. He hadn't a fucking clue what to do, but whatever it was going to be, it would surely require that he operate at maximum capacity: and that meant focus! No tantrums, no freak-outs, and absolutely no Harry Potter!

! BREAK !

0800 was a full hour later than they usually had to report for training. They warmed up with heavy exercise, followed by several rounds of dueling. Then the terrain was transformed with large glacial barriers and the recruits were divided into two camps. After fifteen minutes of hurried strategizing, a mock battle was staged.

On one side, Harry led a fast, five-pronged power-charge, while on the other side Draco and the twins maintained a monopoly on dangerous and unpredictable defense. Shadowing Harry, Cho was hit by the cowardice hex, so that she collapsed trembling and crying in terror. Harry aimed his wand at Draco and silently mouthed, _Petrificus_.

The spell ricocheted of the ice barrier and hit the ground near one of fellow Gyffindor. Who promptly threw a spell that whizzed past Harry's head, and he ran for the nearest cover, throwing hexes at any target he could spot, and drawing a lot of fire.

It only took an hour for almost everyone to be incapacitated. In the end, only four people were left standing – Oliver Wood, who had been petrified on his feet (a rarity, considering that most topple over due to imbalance); Tia, who had spent the entire battle hiding behind a remote barrier; Harry, who was managing to function despite having been glanced by a sensory hallucination spell; and Draco, who was stumbling around incoherently under Harry's own _Confondus_.

Macky was not pleased, and he let his ire known with almost ten minutes of solid yelling. Faster! Faster! FASTER!

! BREAK !

It was a somber crowd that entered the extended Mess tent, where a new group of recruits sat awkwardly at two additional long tables. These recruits were not the fiery believers of the twins' class, nor were they the desperate but determined Hogwarts students that comprised the second recruit class; instead, they were mostly the solemn and vengeful survivors of Voldemort's victims, lured into Dumbledore's ranks by the success of the incident at the Ministry of Magic.

After taking in this new group, the sweaty recruits split – about half filed into line to pick up lunch, while the other half pushed against each other to get a look at the Casualty List posted on the menu board. There were several exclamations of relief, cut short by a single broken cry, then no one voiced relief again, though two others were reduced to tears – including Cho, who clung to Harry and sobbed.

Harry couldn't help it: on a deep level, he felt the loss of all Voldemort's victims as though they were the loss of his own godfather. . . and of his parents. So he held her tight, stroking her soft hair, and his voice trembled when he whispered passionately, "I'm sorry, Cho. We'll get the bastards that did this. . . if they're not already dead."

Over at the Slytherin table, now two fewer in number, Draco clutched unconsciously at his knife (ostensibly provided for him to cut his soggy bread), his eyes discretely watching the scene at the Casualty List. Chang was a much more suitable companion for the Boy-Who-Lived, and he hated her a little bit for that; hated her for having all the simplicity that a happy, normal childhood can bring. Sure, the affair with the Diggory boy must have been traumatic, but s_he _wasn't weighed down with _sixteen years _of mountainous baggage – and just like that, Cho Chang got to throw herself into the arms of Harry bleeding Potter. Draco's strengths lay in his ability to endure, to survive, not in competing for affection.

Unwilling to indulge his bitter, slightly obsessive thoughts, Draco channeled them outwards, to his morose housemates. "It seemed like the trap was pulled off pretty well, but they better be prepared for retaliation."

Milicent, Pansy, and some of the other Slytherins nodded. Blaise muttered, "And those who lash out at Him shall have their efforts revisited upon them ten fold."

Only Tia shivered visibly, but most chillingly recognized the words. Many had been raised on the Dark Lord's commandments, taught to them despite the death of Voldemort, or perhaps in anticipation of his return.

"Chaos is about to break out," Pansy moaned, voicing everyone's thoughts.

"I'm betting that these won't be the last new recruits," Draco asserted, gesturing around him with his knife. "This thing is about to get a whole lot bigger."

Of course, this was the last thing anyone wanted to hear, and the Slytherins as an entirety seemed to slump a little. Still, they made vague efforts to stomach their unappetizing lunches, while Draco chiseled into the wooden table, 'DRACO MALFOY WAS HERE.'

! BREAK !

The afternoon came and went, the grueling regiment bordering on routine. Eventually, the new recruits were brought out and ran through the first day ritual (to the mild entertainment of the others).

After dinner, those that weren't exhausted went outside for some slow football. It was more like kicking the ball around really, since many of the wizards had never played football – still, it was an acceptable alternative in a barren wasteland with no brooms.

After encouraging Clairden and Millicent to join the wannabe footballers, Draco stood still and watched them, taking advantage of the opportunity to clear his mind before a good night's rest.

"Draco!"

Of course, Harry Potter always manage to wreck even his simplest plans; and the loud crunching of snow indicated his proximity.

"What do you want, Potter?" Draco drawled, turning around. _Ugh_, that Chang creature was tagging along.

Sure enough, Cho was hiding behind Harry, holding his hand. Disgust was written plainly on Draco's face, and it made Harry suddenly nervous and uncertain, forcing him to stumble on his words. "I'd just like to talk to you for a bit. You know, about things."

Disgust was replaced with shocked outrage. He must have balls of magically-reinforced steal! How dare he bring _her _to talk about 'things'! Clenching his gloved fists, Draco hissed, "This isn't the place either, Potter. I wouldn't talk about _anything_ with her here."

Harry looked behind him, almost surprised to find Cho there: she had been following him around for ages it seemed, sniffling, like a beaten puppy. Her older brother had died at the Ministry the night before, but even before then she had seemed so fragile, so lost, and so utterly out of place in this war and wasteland.

Then he looked back at Draco's distorted features. The curl of his lip, and that deep scowl – Draco was almost a mirror image of his father in that moment. . .

Draco could see the drama playing out on Harry's expression, but all it did was make him impatient with the whole situation. He really didn't want to be dealing with this shit right now, he needed to just collapse into unconsciousness; so he moved away, to leave, prompting Harry to quickly call, "Later, in your tent then? Without her?"

Frustrated, and annoyed, Draco just flung over his shoulder, "I'm going to sleep, don't bother."

Determined to catch up with the blonde as quickly as possible, Harry wasted no time steering Cho to her tent and recommending rest.

"I don't want to be alone," she admitted pathetically. She knew, deep down, that there was nothing _real _between her and Harry, but he made her feel safe in this hellish place where people died at a distance, and where she spent her days in debilitating fear.

It had been easier to compartmentalize the fear before being hit with the cowardice spell that morning. The hex had been lifted, but not before thorough exploiting her greatest fears, and now they were raw and vulnerable, and tears swelled in her dark eyes.

Harry crumbled: Cho's crying act had long grown old, but it still managed to get to him. Reluctantly, he followed her into her tent. He put her to bed, then lay next to her and held her until she fell asleep.

! BREAK !

For the third time in as many nights, Harry woke suddenly.

Crap! He hadn't meant to drift off for so long, he wanted to talk to Draco. He quietly tugged on his robe and boots, then terminated the light before quickly leaving Cho. He ran through the biting cold to Draco's tent, where scratched on the burlap and whispered loudly, "_Malfoy! Wake up!_"

Draco had not lived as long as he had by being a deep sleeper: he jerked awake and reached under is pillow for his wand. "Who is it?" he demanded.

"It's Harry."

Draco rolled his eyes. Then he illuminated his quarters and rolled out of bed, padding across his cold 'floor' on bare feet. He removed the safeties from his flap and let his visitor in. Harry briefly eyed Draco, who looked quite appealing with ruffled hair, in pajama pants and a t-shirt. Compared with the thick outdoor robes that everyone generally wore, this apparel was quite revealing of the strong body it clothed.

Draco rubbed his neck. "What are you doing here? What awful thing has happened this time?"

Harry shook his head and lowered his hood. "Nothing. Well, yet anyway. I just wanted to check in, and you always seem to up around this time."

Draco stared at him incredulously. _Check in_!

Then suddenly, his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed. "Whose robes are you wearing?"

Bewildered, Harry looked down at his robes. It took him a moment to realize that it was a female cut, and that it actually felt slightly more snug than his own. Glancing up at Draco, his face flushed deeply.

Draco put two and two together faster than Harry could come up with an answer, and the ball of jealousy in his gut flared so sickeningly that he could no longer ignore it. His grand plans to be unaffected by Potter were not executing too well. "You slept with her!" he accused wrathfully.

"No! Well, yes, I did. But nothing happened! We only took off our robes and laid together! She didn't want to be alone," Harry tried to defend, struggling to get the mal-fitting robe off as quickly as possible.

Distressed by how betrayed he felt, Draco backed away to put some distance between himself and the Gryffindor. He _hated _the feeling of jealousy. Being a Malfoy, he had wanted for _nothing_ – save affection; when he was a child, that had meant affection from his father, and he had been jealous of all the everything that meant Father never had any time . . . except for _that_. "Just leave, Potter." Draco sighed. "I need to sleep."

Draco sat on his cot and glared meaningfully at Harry, clearly expecting him to make an exit. Instead, Harry slowly moved closer, as though approaching a wild animal. "Maybe I could sleep here, with you?" he suggested hopefully.

Harry had good instincts, because at that very moment Draco's eyes tracked his every movement, like any wild creature would. His muscles were tense, though that might be from chill, and was still enough to be hiding in plain sight. It was something he was quite apt at, except that it never worked because so many people were _looking_ for Draco Malfoy.

Harry carefully sat down next to him, a little close for comfort. Draco felt so strange all sudden, and had a dreadful sense of needing to tread softly on unholy ground. He was on the edge of something terrifying; he fancied he could see exactly what Harry would do, and what would happen. . . It made him afraid. "Harry," he protested hoarsely. "This is a really bad idea. I can't –"

His words were cut off by Harry's fingers, lightly stroking his cheek; and Draco's body knew without direction how to respond to such developments –

Draco closed his eyes and leaned into Harry's caresses, trying hard to keep his mind as empty as possible. The horrible abyss, irrational and undeniable, was close, pressing against his consciousness, on the verge of breaking through and drowning him in its dark madness. Harry leaned near and Draco tried to whisper, "I'm scared," but Harry covered his lips and kissed him long and tenderly.

Harry's tongue begged entrance, and Draco's lips parted automatically to allow the wet warm probing. It was slow, almost enjoyable; so much less demanding than Father even at his gentlest. For a moment he was distracted and tempted by these dark thoughts, but was pulled back by the genuinely enjoyable experience of Harry nibbling softly on his neck and ear.

"Draco," Harry mumbled in his ear, breath warm and earnest and sexy, "We don't have to do anything, we can just sleep."

Draco didn't believe that for a second. How many times was Father going to tell him to just go to sleep? WHY! So he could wake up getting molested! No way!

But Draco wasn't seven anymore, he was healthy (save for a couple acute hang-ups), sixteen year old male: his body was aroused by Harry's attentions. Graceful without even trying, he pressed himself up against Harry, as he had against Father as a child when he had craved attention, any attention.

Sitting on the bed as they were, this was an awkward position, so Harry maneuvered them so that they lay next to each other on the cot. Propped up on his elbow he gazed worriedly at the intense, unreadable expression of the gorgeous, uncharacteristically complacent boy before him. "Are you okay?" he asked genuinely, though his baritone betrayed his own arousal.

Draco nodded, but he knew it wasn't true; he wasn't okay, and yet he kept on, as though his goddamn autopilot was on goddamn autodestruct.

He licked his lips nervously, inhaling raggedly. It was enough provocation for Harry to kiss him again, leaning their bodies together as he did so. Draco breathed in suddenly as Harry's knee came into firm contact with his hard-on, and he could feel Harry smile against his lips. Shifting his weight, Harry draped himself on top of Draco, pushing his own erection along the firm thigh.

Draco closed his eyes tightly and abruptly gripped onto Harry for dear life, his body tensing and trembling against the horrors that had suddenly attacked his mind.

The humid panting in his ear, the trespassing touch on his child's skin; sweaty and too hot, suffocating the mind and body. . .

It felt good _now_, but it was going hurt soon –

A singly salty tear squeezed through the tight clamp of his eyelids. Memories that he couldn't bare to dwell on suddenly dwelt on him, dragging him through haunting and humiliating experiences that _tortured _him in a way they never had when he was just a little boy. Panic swelled up in his gut. . .

! BREAK !

It took a moment for Harry to realize that something really was wrong, even after Draco's fingers curled into a death-grip on his sweater. It was the trembling that tipped him off. . .

Face buried in Harry's neck, Draco whisper was muffled, but Harry made it out all the same, "Father."

Harry jerked away, prying Draco's hands off his shirt. Upset, and worried, and angry, he jumped to his feet and moved to the corner of the tent so that he could stare powerfully at the canvas for an extreme instant. The focus exercise (courtesy of Snape, ironically enough) helped a little, and he braced himself as he turned back around.

Draco was gone.

Well, it gave him a mild, unappreciated adrenaline rush, but Harry could hear faint whimpers, and the scratch of movement against the canvas floor. He approached the cot, then bent over to look under it.

In Harry's tent this space was taken up by drawers, but here Draco had scrunched up into a feotal ball. The sight tore at Harry's heart, and the signs finally fell into place: the constant edginess, the avoidance, the flashbacks, the attacks. It was Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. PTSD. Sirius had suffered from the same symptoms for many months after escaping Azkaban. Harry had only witnessed a couple, but it was enough.

"Draco. . ." he called soothingly, laying on the floor so that he could reach under the cot and lightly stroke his back. "Draco, come on out."

_Draco. Come on out._

An eternity away, those words echoed in corners of Draco's mind, ignored as thought obsessed with his trauma like a child picking at a scab.

Why did it hurt so much! It was just the past! Those times, those brief encounters in a childhood deprived of affection – those were some of his most cherished memories, weren't they!

The conflict was bittersweet agony. . .

. . . _Draco. You're okay now. Everything's okay_. . .

! END CHAPTER !

Please review!


	28. Day 14, pt I: Ways to Do the Right Thing

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Ch. 28: Day 14, Part I: Lots of Ways to Do the Right Thing

The sound that shattered the night silence was as loud as a foghorn, though much more piercing in its pitch. It was the unmistakable blare of the emergency siren.

Harry jerked his head up in surprise, banging it against the wooden cot.

"OW! Fuck!" he cried, rolling away and etreating to the open space of the floor.

Curled under the cot, the sound triggered some survival reflex, and Draco was abruptly released from the clutches of the past. His eyes flew open and he grabbed at the canvas wall, at the ground, anything for support. After a couple seconds of vertigo, the world righted itself, and Draco began working to steady his heavy breathing.

"Draco! We gotta go! Now!" came a voice, fighting with the earsplitting alarm to be heard. Who. . . ? His wheels spun freely for a moment before finding the traction of memory. His queasy pit of humiliation and disappointment formed in his stomach, and nausea threatened to further upset his breathing. He had totally freaked the fuck out on Harry Potter!

"Draco! We're in danger!"

A little delayed, a wave of adrenaline hit and Draco quickly rolled out from under the cot, catching Harry by surprise. He jumped to his feet, and single-mindedly did what was necessary – tugging on his boots, then grabbing his robes.

He looked terrible: still trembling slightly, and face splotchy. "Are you okay?" Harry asked delicately, incapable of trusting the sudden change.

Then he thought he heard the sound of screaming, mixing in with the almost deafening siren. Draco moved towards the flap, pulling his hood over his head with one hand, wand brandished in the other. "It hardly matters right now."

Harry nodded –

CRACK!

An explosively heavy, blunt force suddenly slammed against Harry, throwing him forward against Draco, and the two were hurled through the flap, just as the entire tent collapsed amidst a magical glow.

The siren was even louder out in the open, and the screams much easier to identify – and locate, despite the darkness. The camp had been overrun! A swarm of black-clad Death Eaters ran amidst the tents, incinerating and destroying them, fighting against a haphazard defense of half-dressed recruits. Harry scrambled to his feet, adrenaline surging through his veins; he didn't even need to think before slipping into blitzkrieg mode: charging a couple oncoming Death Eaters, yelling curses punctuated by cursing.

"_Stupefy! _You slimy Shit Eaters! _Protego! Petrify! _Putrid pains in the motherfucking arsehole!_ Accio wand!_" A Death Eater's wand flew into his left hand, and he began throwing hexes at twice the speed, unconsciously slipping into silence as to not interrupt his berserker diatribe of obscenities.

"I guess that takes care of that whole half of the battlefield," Draco murmured distractedly to himself, both astounded and impressed. He turned his head to glance at the rest of the Slytherin tents – where he saw a horde of black robes congregating in a circle near the far end of their territory.

"Damn!" he hissed, fear clutching at his chest. He bounded to his feet and ran full-throttle towards his housemates. Within moments he was close enough to reliably cast a spell, and he didn't even need to concentrate to throw, "_Imperio! _. ._ Imperio!_ . . _Imp-_"

But he was not hard to locate, charging towards them as he was, and his third attempt was cut off by a spell that slammed into his chest with such force that he was propelled back several meters and landed painfully on his ass. Several Death Eaters broke off from the group to stride purposefully in his direction. Winded as Draco was by the blow, shouting was an exercise in pure will power, "Defend me fuckers! Kill them!"

Coughing and wheezing, Draco was relieved to see the two figures he had hit raise their wands and begin casting _Avada Kadavra_ on their comrades. The group dispersed to deal with the new threats, and Draco could make out a crumpled white-robed figure lying in the snow, a large dark stain growing in the snow. It didn't take daylight to identify the stain as a surely fatal degree of blood loss.

A sick, maddening inner voice commented, _three down_.

With a sudden burst of energy, he forced himself to roll over –

Just as a bright blue bolt of magic exploded the snow where only a fraction of second ago he had lain. . . One arm gripping at the constricting pain in his chest, Draco struggled to his feet, raising his wand with his free hand. He didn't even think about it, silently mouthing any hex that came to mind: between his upbringing and his recent training, they were all of the worst sort.

A _Crucio _hit him, again dragging Draco to the ground where he screamed and writhed in agony. Then abruptly it was over, and his wand had dropped from his hand, but there wasn't enough time as a Death Eater descended on him.

Somewhere across the camp, growing physical fatigue had finally forced Harry to stop yelling and cursing, instead focusing his quite substantial magical energy on flinging debilitating curses. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Oliver Wood and one of the new recruits had joined him in frantic dueling.

A flaming purple comet barreled towards him, and he leapt out of the way, falling singed to the ground. That was _close_.

Then an explosion rocked the night, thundering through the air and spewing bright fire into the dark sky. It took Harry a moment for his eyes to readjust and realize that the fireworks were coming for the area near Moody's and Malkin's tents.

The blaring of the alarms had stopped, but his deafened ears failed to hear the footsteps.

He was grabbed by the hood and yanked painfully to his feet. Gagging and grabbing his strangled throat, Harry twisted his neck to recognize Snape. "You bastard," he gritted harshly.

Snape's expression was cold and hostile, and his eyes narrowed to slits. "The wards are down. They don't know that you are here. The mission has been accomplished, and we're on a tight schedule, if you know what I mean. If you apparate away, we might be willing to forgo the alas time-consuming pleasure of finishing off the wounded and cowardly."

In the distance, Harry saw a couple of Death Eaters approaching, having taken notice of his angry exchange with the odious potions master.

Struggling about suddenly, he violently elbowed the greasy git square in his greasy face, then, freed from Snape's grip, turned around and landed a powerful right hook on his jaw, snapping the head back. With is left hand, he raised his wand to his Adam's apple and murmured, "_Sonorus_," his mind racing to decide which rendezvous point would be the safest.

"APE TO BETA! APE TO BETA!" Harry's voice boomed out over the camp, drawing the attention of everyone still alive and cognizant. He wanted desperately to do more, but the Death Eaters were running now, and Snape was rigid and straight again, raising his wand –

As he apparated away he felt an agonizing freeze clenching at his gut as a neon green _Avada Kadavra _passed through the remnants of his body.

He reappeared kilometers away, clutching his stomach, and collapsed bonelessly to the frozen ground. Several long seconds later, he heard the popping sound of apparation –

Then another. And another.

Harry lost consciousness after that.

! BREAK !

The training had been of some value: when Harry had projected, "Ape to Beta," everyone had understood it as a command to apparate to Fallback Position Beta. Everyone who was capable (there were shockingly few) disapparated after Harry Potter, though it took the recruits a moment to orient themselves in _exactly _the right direction.

Ten more people managed to escape that night: Pansy Parkinson, Oliver Wood, Fred and George Weasley (both noticeably and painfully singed), and a handful of others with whom Harry was less acquainted. Seeing the Boy-Who-Lived collapsed on the hard snow, Wood took charge and ordered everyone around. In moments, Parkinson was conjuring a wide radius heat bubble, the twins and two other recruits were being patched up, and Oliver began checking Harry for injuries. Lifting up his shirt, Oliver gasped at dark, ugly bruises covered his lower abdomen.

One of other survivors, a newbie, knelt down next to Oliver and placed her hands gently on Harry's discolored skin, muttering a basic healing incantation. She did so twice more, while Oliver Wood shifted Harry's body into a comfortable position on his back.

"That's all I can do," the petite brunette muttered stoically, with the air of someone well acquainted with death.

Wood chewed on his lip, trying to figure out what to do next. Finally, indecision forced him to go with instinct. "We'll wait here for about an hour, get ourselves patched up as best we can. Then we'll send a reconnaissance team to find out if the Death Eaters have cleared off. When they have, most of us should go back to search for survivors."

As he spoke, his eyes searched terrified expressions and hopeless postures for anything he cold draw strength from, for anyone he could lean on. But he found nothing, and he wondered if this is what it felt like to be Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world.

! BREAK !

It was nearing dawn by the time Wood sent the Weasley twins to scope out the camp. Both of them were exhausted, but seemed (after being subjected to a couple spells designed specifically to treat burns) best suited for the task. Harry Potter was still unconscious.

Fred and George apparated a good twenty-five meters outside of the camp and instantly dropped to ground. Their robes had been spelled clean, and their hoods drawn over their distinctive hair, so they virtually disappeared into their snowy white surroundings. They crawled purposefully towards the camp, but the sky was already brightening in preparation for the sun's arrival, and it soon became obvious that the camp was dead. Smoke gently rose from several spots, but no movement could be discerned.

"I don' see anything," George whispered.

Fred's eyes flickered over the camp. "Neither do I."

"It could be a trap."

In his gut, Fred doubted it. It was just that. . . the scene before him did not give the impression of a trap. Rather, it looked and seemed exactly like what it had been – a total fucking massacre.

It suddenly struck him that he hadn't told George that. . . How could he have not! How could that not be the first thing out of his mouth! Inhaling sharply, he blurted, "They killed Lee."

George looked sharply at his twin. "We don't know that."

Fred swallowed painfully, pupils blurring the landscape before him. "I do. I saw him go down."

George was still and silent for several seconds before hissing, "Fuck."

He scrambled to his feet, Fred mirroring the action almost instantly.

"I don't think it's a trap," George muttered darkly. "I think they achieved their mission with gold fucking stars."

Fred nodded his head miserably: they were in complete agreement.

They were supposed to report back to Wood before further action was taken, but something suddenly drew their attention –

Someone was upright amongst the camp ruins, walking through the predawn light. The figure must have seen them too, for he/she was waving, though the individual's apparel was difficult to identify the apparel as either white or black.

The twins and the unknown individual walked cautiously towards each other, no one certain what to expect. Following basic wizarding etiquette, Fred and George lowered their hoods to allow their faces to be recognized. At that moment, the sun first peaked above the Eastern horizon, highlighting three recognizably shiny quaffs – two fiery red, and one platinum blond.

"Weasels!" "Blondie!" they screeched simultaneously.

They ran towards each other, for once truly relieved to see one another.

"We've come to help any wounded," Fed blurted as soon as Malfoy was close enough.

"Some of us are waiting at Beta point," George added, taking in the Slytherin's haggard appearance. His once-white robes were a splotchy mix of blood, ash, and magical scorching.

Exhausted and weak on his feet, Draco croak, "There are injured. Not everyone's dead."

"Are the Death Eaters gone?" George asked seriously.

Fading quickly, Draco nodded absently, "They left a while ago. . ."

Fred moved closer, taking a firm grip on the Slytherin's arm. "Someone needs to take him back to Beta point."

"Why don't you take him back, and bring the others," George pushed, at once anxious to be separated from his twin and desperate to run through the camp and find – anyone. George finished awkwardly, "I'll begin locating survivors."

Fred looked searchingly at him, but eventually just nodded. Then he disapparated, Malfoy side-along.

George jogged towards the camp borders.

! BREAK !

Warm, but with every muscle aching and a horrible numbness in his gut, Harry woke groggily.

Even without glasses, he was pretty sure he could identify the fuzzy figure before him. "Pansy?" he rasped.

Hair protruding big-headedly in every direction, Pansy suddenly grinned, and her normally drab features transformed wondrously. "Harry Potter!" she exclaimed, her face blaring into focus as she spontaneously hugged him, though with obvious care for his injuries.

Despite physical exhaustion, Harry's thoughts began to speed and jack up, rapidly flooding his mind. . . His pupils flicked around rapidly, eyes desperately seeking something close enough for nearsighted focus; that way did hysteria lead. . .

Jerking himself to awareness, he squeezed his eyelids shut, concentrating instead on formulating the question, "Did we ape to Beta?"

Pansy withdrew, but continued to firmly hold his hand as she composed herself to deliver the facts. "Ten of us apparated here after. Most of them have returned to the camp to look for survivors, now that the Death Eaters are gone."

"Who-who made it?" Harry whispered urgently, though he dreaded the answer.

Pansy rubbed her already red eyes. "The Weasley twins, you'll be thrilled to hear. Wood has crowned himself leader while you've been asleep. Huang Jingxua, if you remember her, the Ravenclaw? Three of newbies, who have proven to be a surprisingly resourceful bunch. A couple of the original recruits also survived, Warren and Jaykidza, I think."

"Draco?" Harry whimpered pathetically, briefly covering his face with his arm to hide the misery and dread, but causing Pansy's expression to darken and she scrutinized him for a long moment. Clues to which she had previously been oblivious fell abruptly into place and she finally realized that more lay between Harry and Draco than could easily attributable to hostility or necessity.

"He's okay," she finally sighed. "He was the first one found when we sent a team to the camp. Fred brought him back. Several other living casualties have been found in the meantime."

"Living casualties?" Harry exclaimed hoarsely with uncharacteristic sarcasm, miserably relieved about Draco but extremely upset nonetheless, and now struggling to sit up with great effort. "Is that what we've been reduced to! This is a goddamned military base! How the fuck did they find us! Why was there so little warning!"

Pansy was clearly fighting back tears with anger, snapping, "I DON"T KNOW! Maybe we have a spy! I don't know! All I know is that _people have died_. My friends have died."

Harry stared at her, nostrils flared but blatantly and awkwardly unsure of his position; his emotions were torn in a million directions, if only he could afford the time and energy to take them into consideration. He needed to focus on what was important –

"Where's Malfoy?"

Pansy glared at him with such ease that he was sure she had expected him to ask that very question. "Why do you want to know? He's nothing to you."

Harry felt like crap, and it was all he could do to gaze up at her in annoyance. "You know that's not true."

Pansy continued to regard him for a tense while longer before answering, "Do I? . . . I know that he's infatuated by you, that he has placed faith in you that he has never had in anyone. He wants us to trust you, and I trust him, but you – you're a different story. Should I really believe in false idols after so many have died?"

Harry could only look at her with dead eyes. Those labels – idols, heroes, victims, enemies – he hated them, for every one of them assassinated his identity. One of the most famous and powerful wizards of the day, those labels reduced him to nothing more than a predetermined role, dictated by and completely dependant on the greater society. His role outshone him so that it was all people could see, and they were blind to who he really was. Even Dumbledore and Cho saw him that way.

Really, there were only a few exceptions: Hermione, Ron (though sometimes he doubted), Sirius, Remus, and, and. . . And, very recently, Draco Malfoy.

Harry scowled, irritated with himself for thinking again about Malfoy. This wasn't about Draco Fucking Malfoy, though it sometimes seemed like it was. No! He was going to kill Voldemort – that scum of the earth, that revolting piece of no-good shit, that horrendous and atrocious abomination to all humankind. He, Harry Potter, was going to murder that _thing_ in cold blood. And there would liklye be many casualties along the way, especially with everyone being so, uh, _inexperienced._

Harry's expression gradually shifted to one of pity, and he gathered what energy he could to say, "I'm gonna to kill the monster, that's all there is to it. Either you're with me, or against me. . . Trust that I mean you no ill-will, but do not forget that my top priority here is to destroy Voldemort."

Pansy was obviously horrified by his use of the Dark Lord's name, but the Slytherin in her could pick up on the slightly off-kilter inflection that betrayed the rehearsal that had gone into those last words. She remained silent, and Harry eventually added meekly, "I'd still like to see Draco."

Pansy nodded slowly, feeling wholly unequal to the fantastic task of standing up to Harry's fate-train. "Look, just don't get out of bed, okay? You're still recovering. I'll levitate him over."

Only because he felt so terribly, Harry obeyed her command and stayed put. Cot, blanket, and Draco Malfoy shortly levitated into his limited visual scope, out of focus but clearly identifiable from his platinum hair and uniquely pale skin. The cot was placed next to his, and Harry twisted around unnaturally so that he could bring his half-blind eyes close enough to see Draco face. . .

Whether it was porcelain and perfect as usual, or bruised and bloodied as now, Harry couldn't deny the agonizing smile that stretched his lips. He was so proufoundly _miserable_, but he was so relieved that Draco was okay that he could not resist fearing the day he woke up to discover that yet another loved one had died. . .

Harry shook his head and drew away from the intoxicating blond. "I don't suppose you know where my glasses are?" he asked Pansy.

The mousy Slytherin rolled her eyes, reaching to pluck his glasses from the neck of his shirt. "We were really scared for you for a while there," she confessed quietly. ". . . when we found you unconscious."

Harry swallowed heavily, feeling the renewed ache in his belly. "I got hit by the killing curse as I was aping out."

Sitting on the side of Draco's cot, Pansy looked at him impassively: he was incapable of shocking her at all anymore. What was one more _Avada Kadavra_?

Now that his glasses rested again on his nose, he looked around him. There were at least a half dozen injured recruits laying on conjured cots, Jiaxuan and another recruit making their way amongst them.

Then he looked back at Malfoy: busted lips and nose, swollen eyes, bloodied knuckles – these weren't the injuries of any duel. . . Malfoy had gotten down and dirty, hand-to-hand, had beaten the shite out of someone, maybe several people. Then, somewhere along the way, he had gotten the shite beat out of him; hence, he now lay messily in the cot next to one Harry Potter.

"Is he going to be okay?" Harry asked seriously.

Pansy gazed guardedly down Draco.

They had known each other as children, as freaky as that experience had been (Draco never acted like other kids). It had been their parents' wish that they would marry, but those plans seemed void and insignificant in the wake of current events. She had never _been in love with_ him, but she loved and respected him, and she dared to think that they could've been happy together despite all the pain.

Her looked Harry in the eye, willing herself not to cry, "He was awake earlier, his vitals are good. It's probably just exhaustion. As for him being okay . . ."

Catching her drift, Harry looked up at her dolefully, "I'm trying, but it's not easy."

His words faded to a pensive, accepting silence. Finally, Pansy stood up. "I'm gonna go check the others. Maybe get an update."

Pansy left Harry to relive and obsess over the events of the last few hours, demanding to know what he had done wrong. Impulsively, his gaze returned again to Draco, and he reluctantly conceded to the comfort the Slytherin provided, conscious or not. Basking in the oblivion inspired by Draco's unique beauty and strength, Harry dared believe everything would be okay in the end.

Holding Draco's hand in his own, Harry allowed fatigue to yield to dreams of a better future.

! CHAPTER END !

PLZ REVIEW! No ever reviews me, it makes me feel sad. Don't I deserve love?


	29. Day 14, Part II: Ashes

Disclaimer: I am making no profit off this story. The characters and much of the setting are the property of JK Rowling and her associates.

Ch. 29: Day 14, Part II: Ashes

Two hours later, almost everyone was accounted for: in addition to Harry Potter and the original ten that had apparated out of the camp, nine more had been found injured (including Draco), but with a good chance of survival, and they were assisted to the Beta location. Six others had been found near-death, and they too had been rushed to Beta, but now only four remained, and the two bodies were simply laid side-by-side and covered with snow. The survivors simply hadn't the energy to do anymore.

The total death count was up to sixty-three, soon to be sixty-seven when the near-dead eventually crossed over into all-dead. That left sixteen people unaccounted for, including Moody, Mackin, and _eight_ (of only eleven) Slytherins. The Weasleys half-seriously suggested to the scavenging recruits that a particular pile of charred debris was actually Moody's remains, and it was certainly very close to where he was last spotted. No one dared voice opinion as to what might have happened to the Slytherins, weighed down by the sort of oppressive fear that makes people try to be invisible. Whether the Slytherins were traitors and had fled, or had been captured and were being tortured, there was nothing to be done about it now.

Draco was woken by a coughing fit, as his lungs tried to hock up soot. Sitting up, the first thing to hit his mind was that, once again, he felt like total shite. Not only was he in pain, but it was fucking _cold_.

The second thing he noticed was the warm, clammy hand wrapped around his own. Panicking for a moment, he froze and stopped breathing.

It was Harry's hand. . . and that made him feel a little bit better.

He glanced around him: several meters away there were scattered cots with resting occupants; even further, three people were standing, apparently talking to each other; the sun shone with a mid-morning brilliance, reflecting everywhere off of pristine snow. What the Hell had happened? He had a fuzzy memory of stumbling amongst corpses and burning ruins; of running into the Weasley twins at daybreak.

Shivering, Draco looked back at Harry. The boy was obviously exhausted, body at an unnatural angle, glasses slipping off his nose and mouth hanging slightly open to get just the right acoustics for his rasping snore. With a messy chocolate mop on top, the Gryffindor was almost _endearing_.

Without letting his thoughts digresses further with such treachery, Draco pulled firmly on Harry's arms, gently yanking three or four times. "Harry!"

Dark lashes blinked open, squinting in the sunlight. "Draco?" he whispered, voice rough with sleep.

What had he needed to say? "You're alive," he stated awkwardly, as though unsure of his footing.

Harry smiled lazily, stretching out languidly on the cot, taking the time to work out the numerous kinks in his muscles.

Draco was a little bewildered. Was _Potter_ trying to be sexy! Worse yet, was he actually succeeding! In that incorrigible, unconscious sort of way. . .

Harry let go of Draco's hand to sit up and push his glasses up, his movements tracked closely by the inscrutable Slytherin. He would have been worried, except that the pale, scrunched up face was sp _adorable_. So he grinned winningly and gave his best reply, "You're alive too."

For an intense moment, their eyes were locked, but then Draco turned away. Fingers shaking faintly as they tried not to fidget, he stuttered, "I c-couldn't believe it, you know, when you charged all those Death Eaters. It really, uh, b-blew me away."

Harry studied his profile, wishing he was better at this interpersonal shite; wishing he knew a way to put Draco at ease. "It was nothing, it was stupid even. Hermione always says I'm rush blindly into danger and she's right."

Draco didn't look surprised, and silence stretched shortly before Harry asked tentatively, "What happened to you?"

Draco's expression turned decidedly sour then, and he hesitated before answering softly, "They of were slaughtering my. . . people, so I guess I did some of my own blind rushing. I held out alright for awhile, I managed to, uh, drop a bunch of them. . . Oh, who am I kidding," he asked suddenly, irritable with himself. "I used Unforgivables, Harry. I killed people."

But both boys were too jaded by this point in their lives to be moved at all from their stoicism. "So did I," Harry answered coolly, refusing to feel any sympathy for the enemies he killed.

Draco nodded slowly, oddly comforted. Distantly he could remember three different alternate realities in which he had killed, and he could remember the acts themselves in detail, except for the one reality in which he had killed enough times for the memories to begin to fuse together. . .

After a pensive moment, he turned away from morbid thoughts. "Sev – uh, I guess I should call him Snape now. Anyway, he stunned me, it just grazed me, but it was powerful enough to knock me off my feet. . . I was sure he was going to kill me. I was so terrified. . . He's my godfather, you know. . . I didn't want _him _to be the one to kill me. He's always been kinda nice to me." His voice had deepened again, as close as he was willing to get to revealing emotional weakness, his well-hid hurt. "Then, it was so fucked-up, he walks up and starts beating the bleeding shite outta me. Sev _never _uses physical violence, and I would know. He dislikes touching people at all, and he always uses his wand if he needs to put someone in their place. . . But he just wailed on me, until I was out cold."

After another oppressive expanse of silence during which Harry considered his own encounter with Snape, he suggested tentatively (wanting to kick himself for making excuses for _Snape_), "Maybe he wanted to make it look like he had killed you."

Draco raised his hands to rub his face, having considered a myriad of different possibilities while roaming the smoking ruins of the camp. "Maybe. . . but he can't be forgiven for being a willing slave to that monster. He killed recruits, I saw him."

Harry licked his lips, willing himself to say just enough to walk the line, "He's a traitor to both sides."

Draco's striking gaze fixed again on his, his expression as blank as ever. Merlin, he was appealing as ever too, scuffed or not, coldly unimpassioned or hotly enraged. Harry acted on his impulse to break the distance and once again took Draco's hand in his own. The Slytherin was instantly uncomfortable and turned away to look out over the Beta site, though he did not pull his hand from Harry's.

"Harry. . . what are you doing?" he queried reproachfully, making a poor attempt to sneer that Harry could still make out from his profile. "You can't still be thinking about that, not after. . . what happened."

Harry hadn't really had much time to think about what had happened before the attack, but now that he did, briefly, it was pretty discouraging. Draco's reaction: it wasn't just a bad reaction, it was a _terrible _reaction, and almost certainly indicative of Post-traumatic Stress or some other manifestation of being completely fucked-up. He wondered suddenly if maybe the most humane thing to do wouldn't be to just leave Draco alone, instead of pressuring him in a direction that he was clearly not ready.

"I told you it was a bad idea," Draco said roughly, defensively, still facing away, as though conversing over a great distance.

But Harry's wasn't as dense about the blonde as he been just two weeks ago; a brief consideration of the situation, and of Draco himself, was enough to tell him that it was already too late to simply back-off. Glancing down at Draco's hand, tense in his own, he knew that Draco did feel something tender for him, whatever evidence he frequently presented to the contrary. It was obvious to Harry that just getting this far had been difficult enough for the damaged Slytherin, and he was close enough to know that hardly anyone else (if anyone else at all) was this close to Draco.

If he backed off now, Harry was pretty sure he'd never get another chance with the isolated boy with whom he was inexplicably smitten and devoted; even worse, if he backed off now, Draco may never open up again to the possibility of something real with _anyone_. Harry wanted to curse the gods who had given them their only chance in the middle of a damned war while Draco suffered from Post-traumatic Stress; but he also knew he cared enough to really want that one chance.

So Harry gently pulled Draco's arm, urging the hurting teen to just _look _at him.

"I really like you, it must be obvious," Harry rushed, a little embarrassed, and Draco's elegant eyebrows shot up. "I'm willing to wait, as long as it takes. It's strange, you know, 'cause we've been enemies for so long, but it's like I've never seen you until these last weeks. Now. . . we've been through some pretty awful stuff together, and I know that. . ." He swallowed before continuing, growing increasingly hot, and voice constricting, "To, me, you're worth waiting for. Whatever it takes, within reason. 'Cause, well, I really like you and all," he finished hastily, relieved but a slight nervous wreck.

naThere it was, he had put all his cards on the table.

Harry forced himself to look Draco in the eye, and for a tense moment he feared a bad reaction –

Then a tentative smile tugged at Draco's lips. "You're such a Gryffindor, Potter," he commented affectionately, rolling his eyes to break the tension. Sure, Potter's words were a little, uh, frightening in their commitment, and what that would entail. . . But it felt sinfully, _undeniably _good to be really wanted, really liked; by someone who wasn't a creep, who wasn't trying to mess with him or hurt him; by someone who maybe _he _could want, and like, and even learn to trust.

Not easily swayed, Harry squeezed Draco's hand, pressing his thumb along the smooth palm, urging him to, "Call me Harry again."

He'd hate to admit to it, but Draco quite charmed. Harry was right, few others had ever gotten close enough to be as nice to him, especially when confronted with the aristocrat's many faults and defense mechanisms. Draco's lifelong emersion in deception, interestingly, made him particularly susceptible to earnest cheesiness; a full, if shy smile was finally reciprocated. "_Harry_," he teased in an artificially sweet voice.

Harry just smiled back, liking the sound of his name on other boy's lips, however affected. When Draco didn't break their eye contact after several seconds, Harry found himself drawn closer again; leaning forward until his face was quite near to Draco's. The Slytherin did not withdraw a millimeter, but Harry thought he could identify the traces of apprehension in his expressive eyes and his tempting lips. Watching his tongue dart out to moisten the pink flesh, Harry had to breathily ask, though he dreaded the answer, "May I kiss you?"

A slight shiver ran through Draco, but then he nodded faintly, and that was all Harry needed to close the space between them by placing a long, chaste kiss on his lips. After several seconds, his mind whispering _careful, careful_, he broke the kiss and, placing his free hand lightly on Draco's neck, pressed their foreheads together. "I'm really glad you're alive. . . I'm so stupid sometimes, I just act on impulse. I should've stayed with you when they attacked. . . I'm not, uh. . . very good at keeping other people alive."

Barely touching, Draco brushed his nose against Harry in an intimate gesture that soothed them both. "It's not your responsibility to keep me alive," he whispered. "A lot of people died last night, but it's not you're fault."

Harry's eyes closed unhappily and tiredly, and he nodded, unbelieving but comforted anyway. "You, Pansy, and Tia are the only Slytherins that made it here, though Tia is injured pretty badly. We couldn't find the bodies of the others."

Draco drew back, turning his face away even as anger and pain clouding his features. "They be taken home, tortured. . . put under _Imperius_, then we'll have to face them in battle."

Harry sat up straighter, now that they were moving into war mode. He wasn't sure if Draco's version of events was true, but he wasn't about to make an issue of it now. Instead he said, "We should get up, get everyone together. Maybe come up with a plan."

! BREAK !

Though Harry wished for his best friends' help (Hermione in particular was very nifty at figuring out what to do), he and Draco, aided shortly by Oliver Wood and the Weasley twins, did a fair job of hammering out a makeshift plan.

For the next eight hours, the fourteen uninjured and mildly injured would take shifts resting and doing the many duties Harry came up with – treat the injured, cook a meal from the Beta rations, reinforce the defense and heating wards, and scavenge the camp for any survival tools to take with them. The Beta location came equipped with an emergency portkey to England, but when Harry had asked on his first day where exactly, Mackin had just replied, "Nowhere you want to be. It won't come to that."

In retrospect, Harry realized that Mackin had jinxed them all (muggle style) with those words. True to fashion, it had come to just that. They would be leaving in eight hours, under the cover of winter's early darkness, to wherever luck would send them. Harry had conceded to take a few hours rest later, but in the meantime he was fastidiously 'overseeing' the other recruits and uncertainly trying to somehow prepare for the future.

Draco had some basic knowledge healing (it had been useful knowledge in the Malfoy household), but it was enough to be helpful amongst the injured. It was predicted that only half of them would really be up and ready by departure time. Three more of the critically injured died, and Malfoy used a spell to bury them in the snow by the other dead. Harry (as expected) said a few inadequate words, and then a handful of people gave a moment of silence over their frozen graves.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," Pansy said hoarsely over Tia. "May your body lie here in ice for centuries and millennia, so that you may be some day dug up and displayed on exhibit as a specimen of our era. You will be an excellent ambassador," Pansy sniffled, a tear escaping her lashes. "You were innocent, and brave, and unjustly taken before your time! I hope you live on in the future we will secure for you!"

Everyone was rather astounded, though several were brought to tears nonetheless, Harry included. The recruits began to disperse to their tasks or rest, and Harry approached Draco where he stood over the grave of his fallen housemate, the youngest and smallest of the recruits, just a scrawny fifth year Slytherin. Had she not even been worth taking back? It hurt so much, so often, it was predictable, normal even. Who was next? Pansy? Potter? Himself?

Pansy had remained too, and she watched Harry approach. He looked at Draco with concern and sympathy, hesitating to say anything. . .

So she said something, "Where are we gonna go, Potter? When we get to Britain?"

Harry turned towards her, as if just seeing her. He had been considering the topic mere moments before, and he now attempted to articulate his conclusions. "Well, I've been thinking, and there's a few things we can do, depending on the situation we find ourselves in. We could attempt to contact Dumbledore, or any of the Order members. We could make a team to scope out the Ministry. If we can figure out what is happening, maybe snoop around Diagon Ally or St. Mungo's. Right now our ignorance is our greatest weakness, so we need to gather intelligence. Worse comes to worst, I know how we can hide out in the muggle world while we find our bearings." Hermione, the other Weasleys, and Lupin were high on his list of people to contact.

Draco and Pansy were both looking at him now, the former stoically, but the latter nodding a hesitant acceptance: Harry Potter, the bleeding Boy-Who-Lived, had some okay ideas, and right now, that was enough.

"I guess that will have to do," Pansy complained defeatedly.

Returning his attention to Draco, Harry took two steps near, conspicuously close to the teen who stood as still as a white marble statue. Pansy's eyes widened as Harry took Draco's hand.

"Wha-?" Draco started, startled, drawing his arm away; but Harry held on, and Draco glanced worriedly at Pansy to gauge the damage. Just a little bit, but she was smirking at him! Using _his_ smirk! "It's not what you think," he hissed with a scowl so fierce that Harry's grip on his hand trembled.

Pansy quickly back-peddled, close enough to Draco to know that whatever was going on between him and Harry was _very _delicate subject. "I know," she soothed, changing tactics like a true Slytherin. "I know you'd never do something like that. . . not that I think there's anything of wrong with it of course."

"Whatever," Draco growled, relaxing slightly despite clammy palms.

Harry squeezed his hand, "Why don't we take a rest? We've both been up for hours, healing is so draining. . . "

'Much like watching people die,' Draco added silently; but he nodded anyway. He was tired, exhausted even, and they'd be on the move again soon. Pretending that he wasn't actually doing something that Harry bloody Potter had encouraged, Draco turned to leave the little burial site, giving Pansy a daring look over his shoulder.

Silently they returned to their parallel cots and lay down. Draco was asleep within minutes, but Harry couldn't escape his worries so easily; the future was terrifyingly uncertain. He was stranded, without Dumbledore, with almost no idea what was going on. Had there been other attacks? Had the ambush at the Ministry provoked some unimagined retaliation? How had everything spiraled out of control so quickly?

For the first time in months, since before Sirius died, Harry found himself actually reaching towards that dark corner of his mind. . . forcefully contained, like a black hole leading to Tom Riddle's twisted mind –

It was closed on the monster's end too.

As awful as the dreams and paranoia had been, Harry regretted it now; now, he was flying blind.

! BREAK !

At 2000 hours, the troupe was as ready as it was ever going to be. A fair number of supplies had been scavenged from the ruined camp, and had been packed up and shrunk. There were now only twenty recruits left, four of which still weren't steady on their feet. But they couldn't just wait, not while who-knows-what was going on, not in this isolated and desolate wasteland.

Harry's expression was not encouraging. Wood and the Weasley twins had apparently elected themselves to his war cabinet, all three having come to him at least twice in the last eight hours alone – offering opinions, insights, ideas. They were there now, as were Draco and Pansy, surveying the survivors just as Harry was.

"Maybe we could assign four stronger recruits to the four injured," Oliver Wood suggested after a moment. "They could look after them, you know, if they need help."

Harry nodded immediately. "That's a good idea. Try to assign someone who knows them, if possible."

"Right." Oliver marched towards the four weak recruits to set the plan in motion, unaccountably chuffed to be working and fighting in such close quarters with Harry Potter. It had been cool at school, though Harry had seemed so much younger then. . . Now, however, it was war, and being on _Harry Potter_'s team meant something much more.

"Alright, mate?" either Fred or George asked. Harry could usually tell, but it was more difficult with the winter robes and hoods on.

Harry eyed the twins, and for a moment Ron flashed through his mind. The twins were taller and lankier than their brother, and their hair much longer, but their faces held his familiar warmth and strength. He mustered a smile. He wanted to say, 'We'll make it through, we always do,' but too many people had died for that to be true. Cho, Tia, Will, O'Brien; most of the Slytherins were gone. . . Oh Merlin, Cho. . . Could he have failed her any more?

When Harry failed to answer for several seconds, Draco responded for him, "Of course he's not alright, no one's alright. But we'll all do what we have to anyway."

The twins looked at Draco with a strange mixture of distaste, shock, and agreement; then Wood returned, urging everyone closer. It was time.

The codeword-activated portkey was actually a self-sizing rope, with space enough for everyone to hold on as Harry whispered, "Cassiopeia."

Then there was a familiar yank at his navel –

! CHAPTER END !

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	30. Day 14, part III: Maze of Directions

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and the HP Universe are property of JK Rowling. I own nothing.

Ch. 30: Day 14, part 3: Maze of Directions

The trip was rough and nauseatingly prolonged for portkey, then everyone was allowed to drop a good two meters to the ground. As one can imagine, there was much muffled cursing.

Harry was looking around before he even got to his feet: it was oppressively dark, but still obviously a forest, the kind that gave him the heebee-geebees. Ugh, and it was raining.

"Welcome to Britain, home sweet home," Harry heard Draco grumble somewhere near him, though both of them would take the rain over the eyeball-freezing cold any day.

"_Lumos_," Harry muttered, holding up his wand to see Draco. He was standing, relatively composed considering the situation, and apparently unharmed; so Harry spared him a quick smile before turning to check the others. Several other wands began shining brightly, and the forest was lit up eerily with an unnatural light. The trees towered upwards, hiding the night sky with a leafy ceiling of intertwining branches.

Silently, intensely, wands gripped firmly, the soldiers took stock of their surroundings. Noticing his own thoughts, Harry was a little pleased to realize that they were indeed _soldiers_, fat lifetimes away from the recruits they had been just twenty-four hours ago. Gone was the fatigue, the bad attitudes, and the horsing around that had been more prevalent during training.

Training was over, Harry mused darkly; it had been a scant three days.

The soldiers were gathering closer now, waiting for direction, and Harry flushed a little, wishing he didn't have an audience for what he was about to do. Though what he really wanted was a magical map, he was also sure that there was some sophisticated spell that actually did what he was going to have to do it the old-fashioned way. If only Hermione were here to see this, she'd be so proud.

He said clearly, so all could hear and see (it felt a little like being back in DA), "Point me."

His wand jerked him around almost 180 degrees, then he removed a muggle pencil and a pamphlet from his robe pocket, unfolding the paper to reveal a large map of Britain. He placed the map on the ground, pointed North. Holding up his wand, he said stated, "_Istac_ London."

His wand jerked again, pointing south and slightly east. Kneeling on the ground, he marked the direction next to London. "It's just geometry guys. Wherever we are is on a parallel line, with regards to the North and South poles, as London and any other British city. So our angle towards London, in respect to the poles, is virtually the same as London's angle towards us. . . in respect to the same poles. . ."

Harry trailed off, suspecting that he had already lost most of crowd, but he was encouraged to note that Pansy, Draco, Wood, and quite a few others seemed to have some idea as to where he was heading with this. Others were pushing against each other to get a look at the muggle map. So Harry stood again, and said, "_Istac _Manchester."

This time his wand pointed west and slightly north. He marked this direction from Manchester, then used his wand as a ruler, ghetto-style, and extended one line out from each of the cities. "Now I'm going to use these direction to find the one point here they intersect, and this is the only place where you can be is these directions for both cities – Nottingham."

For a brief instant, there was only silence in response.

"Nottingham Forest is more like it," Draco scowled, and he was not the only one looking displeased with this revelation; a couple people even groaned.

Now Harry was irritated too. Why did everything have to be so shitty all the time! "Let me guess, Robin Hood was a wizard, Maid Marion a witch, and this forest is haunted by merry men in tights!"

Only two soldiers understood his references enough to laugh, though Harry certainly wasn't laughing, and everyone else was looking at him as if he were mad.

"Harry, mate," Fred said with slightly exaggerated care, as if not wanting to destabilize him. "I don't know any robbing hood."

"And I don't think I've ever met a maid in my life," George continued, as if educating a small child. "Wizards' have used house elves for centuries."

"But I don't think either one of us should touch your last comment!" Fred cracked, laughing loudly, and thankfully breaking the tension brought on by Harry's outburst. He felt a little guilty: he was in charge, he couldn't throw temper tantrums anymore.

"Shut up, you idiots," Draco demanded harshly. "If our lights weren't enough to alert the entire forest to our presence, your shrieks surely did."

"This is no laughing matter," Wood agreed sternly. "Nottingham Forest is second only to Hogwarts Forbidden Forest in its magical strength, but more evil. It is completely concealed from the muggles, of course, but that will make it difficult to leave without finding the barrier."

"I vacationed near here once," another soldier. "My girlfriend almost got mangled sphinx!"

"Don't be dumb!" Pansy snapped. "Sphinxes are only native to North Africa and the Middle East."

This was getting out of hand. . . "Stop it, everyone!" Harry commanded suddenly, glaring as he caught their attention. "Malfoy's right, we should keep as quiet as we can." Hmmm. . . which way should they go? Oliver was right, they needed to find the barrier, kinda like when he had been lost in the Forbidden Forest. He looked around sharply, conscious of everyone's eyes on him. Maybe he just completely made it up, but he had a sudden hunch about the appearance of those trees over there – almost as if they were not as dense.

"We'll go southwest, towards the city," he finally stated, calmly and with authority, then began motioning soldiers aside so he could lead the way. "Everyone, stay alert. Every third person should have a lit wand, so the others can be prepared for anything."

Eager to be moving, the soldiers quickly fell in a paired line behind Harry. Harry was walking purposely forward, eyes peeled, but wondering why on Earth they had been portkeyed here of all places. The trees seemed to be spies, and he felt the familiar dread that he felt whenever he entered the Forbidden Forest: evil things lurked in long shadows, as if _waiting_ for just the right moment –

"AHHH!"

Harry twisted around to see one of the soldiers, Pip, batting wildly at nothing. What the hell!

"Spider! Spider!" she shrieked before finally managed to flick the (admittedly quite big) arachnid from her chest. Panting, she glanced around at her comrades with embarrassment. "Sorry. I overreacted, I'm a little on edge."

"You're not the only one, I almost had a heart attack," Pansy offered as vague words of comfort; after all, they were two of only five girls that had survived the Death Eater slaughter. This was partially due to the fact that there had been fewer female recruits generally, but it was all the more reason to stick together now.

Time passed strangely. Minutes ticked by slowly, endlessly, while distance fell away quickly. Harry had certainly had enough adventures in the wizarding world to _sense _that they were passing through some magical medium, and he could feel them getting closer.

A twig snapped close to Harry and he looked over to Oliver drawing up next to him. Turning back towards the darkness before him, ominously lit by his shining wand, Harry walked silently, as though to reprimand his ex-teammate for his lack of stealth – not that the troupe of twenty was really capable of inconspicuously trapping through a black forest.

"I used to know a bint that lived in Nottingham. She might still live there. She could probably help us find shelter."

Harry nodded, listening with a half an ear; but he could hear something else, in the distance, constant and rippling, blending in with the sound of wind wrestling through the trees. So familiar, he could almost place it. . .

Then something else –

"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooouuuuuuuu."

"What was that?" a frightened voice asked behind him.

"Werewolves," Draco hissed, bristling almost like a cat. It was with good reason that he had hated Lupin: of all wild beasts, he feared werewolves the most, from having been repeatedly chased down by his father's enslaved wearwolves. . . Even though the beasts were muzzled, nothing was more terrifying. . .

"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooooouuu," came the answering howl, nearer now.

Harry squashed his panic, trying to think quickly. . . quickly, rapidly. . . rapids. . . rapids, water. . . water! Harry seized upon his revelation, barking as loud as he dared, "Run! This way!"

He moved to the side to usher the soldiers by. "Run! Keep going straight! There's a river near, I can hear it! Wade in so they can't get you! Run!"

The soldiers moved as fast as they could, but the injured (and their partners) were significantly slower. Taking up the rear, Harry realized that Draco had held back with him. He didn't even bother to voice his wish that the blonde had taken up the front; the pale features were hard and unyielding, wand poised to kill. Pointing his own illuminated wand at the sinister forest, Harry took one sharp look before saying "Let's go," and followed the others.

Jogging over the uneven terrain of shrubs and fallen branches, suffocated by encroaching darkness, hunted by invisible wolf-monsters: seconds stretched on anxiously and fearfully, seemingly forever. . .

The sound of water was louder now, and Harry was suddenly worried that the river might be too fast to safely wade into. Right ahead of him, one of the injured stumbled and fell. Harry and the partner soldier helped him to his feet –

"OOOOUUUU –"

"_Crucio_!" Draco growled immediately, and Harry twisted in time to see the werewolf spasm mid-leap, withering in agony even as he crashed to the ground at Draco's feet. The Slytherin stood stiff and unhesitating, radiating power from his very body, and from the magic shooting out through his wand.

The sounds the werewolf made were shrill and bone-chilling, indistinguishable from the sound of a large animal being tortured to death. Unnatural squeals, growls, grunts. . .

Harry was at his side instantly, grabbing Draco's arm. "Stop!"

Draco jerked away and glared at the Gryffindor with fanatical hatred. "I _loathe _them! They, they – they're monsters!"

"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooouuuuuuuuu!"

Fuck, that was close. Harry shivered, but it only took a second for Harry to evaluate his priorities and know what had to be done.

"Kill him quick, we gotta go," Harry snapped, adrenaline throbbing through his veins.

To his credit Draco didn't even wait a beat before glancing at the fallen werewolf and hissing spitefully, "_Avada Kadavra_."

Harry's stomach seized sickeningly, but he denied the guilt that tried to weasel into his mind, barking, "Let's get the fuck out of here."

They ran full speed to catch up with the others, soon relieved to be able to see water through the trees ahead, faintly lit by illuminated wands. . . The last two soldiers were getting in right now –

Then they could both hear the sound of something crashing through the forest behind them. Never slowing, they glanced over their shoulder to see four werewolves bounding towards them. If they had thought they had been going full speed before, they were sorely mistaken: they sped up considerably at that sight..

Draco was ridiculously fast, Harry noticed as the fit blonde pulled ahead of him, dashing and leaping with practiced grace and efficiency. Harry would have been astounded, except that he was using every effort in his being to _just make it a little farther_. . .

Leaves and twigs scratched at his face and legs and arms, but Harry sprinted with everything he had. The things were right behind him now.

Draco burst out from the trees, not slowing at all to plunge head long into the rapids. Harry escaped the forest just seconds later, but he only got a couple steps before a werewolf lunged at him, knocking him to the ground and snarling loudly as claws dug around his backpack and into soft flesh –

"_Petrificus Totalus_!" Wood yelled. and the monster collapsed immediately, its substantial weight crashing down on Harry.

"_Accio_ Harry!" the Weasley twins called in unison.

Weak, Harry had still been struggling under the hairy, _smelly _body, but then magic seized him and forcibly hauled him out from under it, straight into the fast-moving river, three werewolves snapping at his heels.

Sputtering and flailing, Harry was dragged several meters through oddly unfamiliar water until four arms caught him and held him against the current. George and Fred, magically anchored to the riverbed, looked down at him in concern. The werewolf's wound on his shoulder bled freely into the strange water. . .

Harry felt the fluid vibrating around him, sparkling and turning silver, then all the soldiers fell through the river.

! BREAK !

They landed on their feet, as though they had only fallen a meter. In their weakness, several stumbled, including Harry, and he would have fallen to the ground had the twins not again grabbed his arms to support him. Eyes darted around, taking in the apparently abandoned room, dimly lit by muggle fluorescence.

There was a tense moment when everyone was braced for an attack, followed shortly by relief when none proved imminent. The soldiers began casting drying spells on each other, and George and Fred insisted on healing his wound with the world's most protracted healing spell.

Draco scowled slightly at the sight, berating himself for the unwelcome ache of jealously and concern. He forced his attention elsewhere, anywhere, his environment –

The windows were covered, by cardboard Draco realized as he approached. Bending a well-used corner, he peered through the dirty glass to see. . .

He noticed the cement pavement, a streetlamp, and a street lined by closed window fronts, easily recognizing the daily sights of another lifetime. Not for the first time, his fingers twitched, wanting to grip a Desert Eagle that he had never really owned. "We're in a muggle town," he announced to all, turning around. "We probably passed through to Nottingham."

"It was the blood," Harry stated, matter-of-factly, watching his shoulder as he tried out the newly healed muscles. "It mixed with the water, reacted, then. . . here we are."

It made just about as much sense as anything in the wizarding world. He looked up, then regretted it immediately. Everyone was glancing around uncomfortably, but Harry was familiar enough with this scene to know that it would only be a moment before everyone settled for staring at him. He had to figure out what to do, ASAP.

"Oliver, this girl you know, would she have access to a magical fireplace?"

Wood was a little startled to be addressed, but nodded quickly. "Almost certainly."

"Okay, then a few of us will go make contact. Everyone else should stay here. Restrict yourselves to low level magic, so no one is detected. Stay alert. We'll be back soon, but _if _something should happen, we'll meet 48 hours from now at the steps of the mayor's building. Everyone got that?"

The soldiers all nodded and voiced affirmative, all except Draco, who demanded with Malfoy arrogance, "Let me go."

Though the nature of the 'request' itself indicated a deference to Harry's authority, no one was pleased to see Harry agree with such complete lack of hesitance – even those who weren't prejudiced against Slytherin still had a hard time trusting or liking a _Malfoy_. It was impossible not to notice the inexplicable connection between the blonde and Harry Potter, as they were not being subtle about it.

Harry turned to the twins. "Fred, George, you two are in charge while I'm gone. Keep everyone awake, and spirits up."

"Yes, sir!" the Weasleys barked in unison, words grave despite their intended mockery.

Harry gestured to Draco and Oliver to come closer. "Take off your robes," he said, taking off his own. "The pants and shirt are passable muggle apparel, but we need to change them to more subdued colors."

Oliver charmed his pants gray and his shirt dark blue, Draco changed everything black, and Harry turned his shirt forest green and his pants beige. Anyone who looked too close would find it odd that they were all wearing exactly the same style, but it would have to do – combined with a disinterest spell.

Then Harry took the time to look appraisingly at his crew: they were a scrappy bunch, stronger for being the last ones standing. Finally, heturned on his heel, saying, "Lets go," and marched towards the door, Draco and Oliver close behind.

Outside, it had stopped raining, and they began walking down the street; Harry in the lead, flanked by the other two.

"Where does your friend live?" Harry asked, spying what appeared to be a big intersection up ahead.

"Um, I can't remember the address exactly," Oliver rushed nervously. "But it was down the street from the modern art museum."

Harry glanced at Draco, whose skin and hair contrasted starkly and strikingly with his black attire; his face was hard, and his expression unyielding. Harry allowed himself to indulge in a moment of relief that Draco was here with him, where he could protect him.

At the intersection, cars were driving by, and by glancing up and down the street, Dracoy spotted exactly what they needed – a taxi, parked outside a busy pub. "There!" he pointed.

"Perfect," Harry replied. They noted the street names (Kirkby and Bunbury), then they made straight for the cab and piled into the back.

"Would you take us to the modern art museum?"

A Pakistani driver turned to look at the three tall youth, stuffed in the back of his cab. "You know its closed at night, right?"

! CHAPTER END !

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